


Pack House

by Ringshadow



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Kingsman (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU so hard tho, Avengers - Freeform, Escalation, Fury's Big Week, Gen, General implied creepy situations, Hawkguy, Human Experimentation, I'm going to save Justin Hammer and you can't fuckin stop me, Iron Man 3 solved by people CALLING THE FUCKING COPS, Kicking Nick's ass does not discourage him much, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Nazi experiments gone... right?, No Tahiti, Phil has plans, Phlint Feels, Project Paperclip, Smart people figuring things out, and tossing Agents of SHIELD out too, it's only paranoia if they aren't out to get you, mostly - Freeform, oh god shit's getting complicated, relationship status it's complicated, soooo no Iron Man 3, supersoldiers, why did I cross these things over
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 45,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6211765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ringshadow/pseuds/Ringshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers was one of the first successful supersoldiers to step out of a lab. He was far from the last.</p><p>Dogs don't vote. Dogs don't own property. Dogs are looked after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how to feel about this one. I like the concept but it's rambling and has a lot of narration. I'd like some feedback. I'm not even settled on the title at this point.

The rules are simple.

 

Dogs do not vote, nor can they run for political office.

 

Dogs do not own property.

 

Dogs are provided for.

 

* * *

 

 

"Ohshit you're a Dog." Clint Barton, former carnie, definite assassin and possible future Probie, blurted out, staring up at Phil Coulson in shock.

 

Field Agent Coulson for his part ignored it, just swept the room with his eyes. His timing had been good, and the intel had been better. The Barton brothers had been sold out and he had arrived as the enemy did, all of which were now on the ground. He lifted a hand to his earpiece. "Targets dead, persons of interest alive, need cleanup crew." Confirmation came immediately, estimated time of arrival, two minutes.

 

Barney Barton (former carnie, possible assassin, probable thief, likely future convict), on the ground injured but alive, was sort-of laughing and that got Coulson's attention. "Rescued. By a Dog. Speak boy speak!"

 

He smiled a bit. "You're both under arrest."

 

"God-fucking-DAMMIT, Barney!"

 

* * *

 

 

Barton, Barney was patched up and put in one interrogation room. Barton, Clinton was put in another. Phil looked between the one way windows, in a fresh suit and sipping a coffee.

 

"What do you think?" Sitwell joined him.

 

"We have both of them on a laundry list of charges with compelling evidence. Even in civilian court it's likely they'd both be convicted. That'd be a waste of their skills, of course." He nodded at Barton, Clinton through the window. "He's the trick shot. Intelligent as well, has most of a math major."

 

"So the brother is a bonus."

 

"An unfortunate one. He'd never manage SHIELD training."

 

"And he might be a Dog-hating asshole." Sitwell finished.

 

"That as well, though I tend not to hold the words of the wounded against them." He conceded, throwing away the empty paper cup and letting himself into the interrogation room with Barton, Clinton.

 

Clint didn't jump but he did seem mildly surprised that it was Coulson that came in and sat down across from him. "Listen, my brother's a dick."

 

"Are you going to apologize for him?" Interesting.

 

"No. Just making the statement. Neither of us have ever met a Dog."

 

"As far as you know." He deadpanned. "Your former employers had been planning on selling you out for some time."

 

"I kind of figured that out. Are you sending us to prison? Because I think I want a lawyer."

 

That made him smile a bit. "Your skills are of interest to the Agency, actually. We'd like to offer you a job."

 

That made Clint scoff. "Pull the other one." When Phil said nothing, his expression changed. "Wait. You're serious."

 

"You're good. We can make you better."

 

"I ... don't think I want to..."

 

"Training, resources, and good pay. You're not being offered the serum."

 

Clint blinked. "Well. Now I think I'm insulted."

 

Phil almost smiled because isn't it funny how that always works.

 

"Good pay?"

 

"High risk, high reward."

 

"I need it on paper. The job offer I mean."

 

"I can do that. Give me half an hour."

 

".. I haven't eaten in a while."

 

"I'll bring food when I come back." He stood, adjusting his suit jacket.

 

He looked surprised, like he hadn't been expecting it to be that easy. "What's going to happen to Barney?"

 

"Fair question. I don't have an answer yet. I'll let you know when I know."

 

"... Thanks. I guess."

 

He only nodded once, and left the room, checking the door locked behind him.

 

Thirty-five minutes later, Clint managed to throw a pen and put it into (and almost through) the window of the interrogation room, apparently just to prove a point. Phil didn't bat an eye, just offered one pay level higher, but no further. Clint took it.

 

* * *

 

 

"Just ask."

 

They were on surveillance. Phil had followed Clint's progress through training, not fully of his own will because Clint got wrote up, a lot. Mouthy, insubordinate, pushed boundaries. But never willfully dangerous, or nasty. Phil had agreed to be his handler for his first missions and had found a steady-handed sniper, ice cold under pressure, who always looked at him like he was a puzzle.

 

Which is what Clint was doing now, and he looked uncomfortable to be caught out.

 

"Just curious is all."

 

"You were given literature about Dogs in training, you know the history."

 

The same old history. Nazi experiment they couldn't get quite right, an attempt at obedient supersoldiers at the end of the war, inspired by Captain America. The first ones had inspired the term Dogs, loyal and vicious and order-following, but not bright. Project Paperclip had brought the experiment to SHIELD, where it found a new home instead of being ceased. It had been blown wide open at the same time as MK Ultra, America's little population of supersoldiers that were an enforced second class. Dogs gained advantages and lost rights. Now, it's just something some people in some agencies get offered, though SHIELD had more than any other.

 

Between fifteen and twenty percent of SHIELD were Dogs of various generation. The process was expensive enough to keep them a minority even with the advantages. Dogs got free room and board, and an allowance for personal items. All medical care was provided. Retirement was cushy, if they lived that long.

 

They saw the most action of any of the operatives. All the strike teams had Dog members. If an operative was working alone his backup were probably Dogs. Solo ops were uncommon but some Dogs did them, Phil was one of them.

 

"Yeah, and I read it." Clint looked at him again. "Just wondering what it's actually like. I got the idea a lot of stuff wasn't in the literature."

 

"Ah." Phil was quiet for a few beats, watching the business down the street. "The change hurts if that's what you're asking."

 

"..bad?"

 

"It's two to three days of whole body pain and they can't put you under because you have to stay lucid. Afterwards you sleep another few days to recover."

 

"Was it worth it?"

 

"For me it was." He looked at Clint. "We're not actually dogs you know. Or werewolves or whatever the fuck the probies think."

 

He snorted. "I like it when you swear, sir."

 

He smiled and put his eyes back on the target. "We're not that different. The serum puts us into the top two percent but there are some non-Dogs in that two percent. The difference is we tend to stay in that two percent our entire service life."

 

"Fast, strong, durable. Right?"

 

"And calm. People forget there is a mental side to this. We're loyal to who gave us the serum, we're calm, we ask questions regarding orders but we don't question orders."

 

That made Clint frown. "You seem more independent than that."

 

"Depends on the batch, honestly, but it isn't mind control if that's what you're getting at."

 

"Batch?"

 

"Serum variation."

 

"Oh. There's more to it, isn't there?"

 

Phil said nothing, just pointed out movement, turning Clint's attention back to work.

 

* * *

 

 

Because the Dog program wasn't perfect. When it started it wasn't offered like a prize to a select group, it was borderline washouts offered a last chance at keeping the job. And the serums were bad, back in the early years. Some died and some went braindead, some got unstable. Some became loose cannons, which led to loyalty being coded in once that was possible. Stray Dogs were dangerous.

 

The big issues slowly got ironed out, replaced with strange glitches which varied between batches. The biggest one was discovered about five years before Phil joined and was offered the serum, and SHIELD had decided to code it in to all the batches going forward.

 

Pack synergy. Some Dogs were better at it than others, but of all their Tricks it was so god damn useful if you could pull it off. Dogs could sit together silently and understanding could ripple between them. Not telepathy or empathy exactly, more an exchange of information patched together like cliché ransom letters. Not useful for precise information, no, but for combat tactics?

 

Priceless.

 

Brock Rumlow was fantastic at synergy. Better than Phil ever had been, to large groups anyway. Rumlow was able to simplify things just enough, lay it out to a group like pictographs. A strike team of Dogs being briefed by Rumlow tended to be nearly silent.

 

Phil respected the art of it. He was better at pairs or one on one, which was like saying he all but couldn't do it, except he could give highly detailed information.

 

It was one of those things that wasn't discussed with non-Dogs. It was so hard to discuss with medics specifically trained to work with them. Fear and hostility of what they were was still really prevalent in the public, even in SHIELD. Everyone worked with the Dogs but those that did all the time sometimes got called Dog Lovers.

 

Fucking stupid.

 

"Agreed." Sitwell said, sipping coffee, apparently picking up on the patchwork of synergy around Phil. "Barton?"

 

He paused mid typing, mind shifting to 'his' archer that had just made level two and the recent operations they worked. This man, good, like, approved. Just that simple and a smile just barely snuck free.

 

"Understood." Jasper smiled a bit back.

 

* * *

 

 

Coulson was Fury's Dog.

 

They all were, technically. He was Commanding Officer, Director of SHIELD, few were over him, certainly no Dogs. Yeah there were high ranking Dogs, upper level holders, strike team leaders. Most of the batch Coulson was from worked command or administration in some way, their serum meant for that really.

 

But Coulson? Fury's Dog. Fury's in every sense of the word really, he had known Nick since recruitment, had been chosen by him for that serum batch. They'd become friends, there was a lot of trust there.

 

Enough that Phil didn't feel embarrassed about the little not exactly human noises Nick fucks out of him. Because he's not a dog, he's not an animal but no matter how much he and all the other Dogs insist on that they all know they're different. They're custom mutants, not human. Their own fucked up little soldier subspecies, and Nick understood. Nick got it.

 

It isn't love. Hell, Phil doesn't know what this is except friendship of some fucked up kind. Mostly he wishes he could synergize with Nick, and he knows he tries without meaning to, the 'aura' around him loud.

 

Which is why they do this in Nick's quarters. More private and safe in every way. Afterwards he hangs on, for a few minutes. Buries his face against Nick's neck and shoulder and hums soft and happy, enjoys his weight and heat.

 

"Sap." Nick chuckled, rolling off to lay beside him instead, stroking his hair and cheek.

 

Phil rolled into the attention, eyes shut and smiling. "Not for anyone else."

 

"Mmn. I know." He shifted, ending up on his back with Phil rolled to rest his head on Nick's chest. "You made a good call about the sniper, by the way."

 

"Barton? Thanks. He'll go far with us. Farther if we let him start using a bow. As good as he is with rifles he's that much better with a bow and arrow." He sighed and sat up, stretching before stepping to Nick's bathroom.

 

"I'll tell R&D to make him something." Nick sat up, watching Phil wash off in the shower. "You're currently in line for a promotion."

 

"Hm. That will make me a senior field agent. Your favoritism is showing."

 

He quirked an eyebrow. "I wasn't the one who recommended you. You're good. You know that."

 

He stepped out, drying off, at ease in his skin. Nick knows every inch of him anyway. "Yes. I do. It doesn't change the fact that I'm a Dog."

 

He scoffed. "Loyal calm command staff, the bane of any organization."

 

"Don't be so obtuse. There will be people unhappy that a Dog's in a command position. They're unhappy enough so many of us are Strike team leaders, handlers and field agents." He shrugged into his dress shirt.

 

"Let'em sulk." He stood and stepped over, doing up Phil's buttons. "You may be a Dog. But you're a damn good Dog and a better man."

 

He smiled, sheepish and proud.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Lap dog."

 

Phil side-eyed Brock in the elevator. "That's rich, coming from you."

 

If Rumlow was startled he covered it well, and just sneered a bit at Phil in response as they stepped off at the same time. "I don't act like I've been swept off my feet."

 

"Maybe that's my favorite position when off duty." Phil stopped in front of his door, paused, then offered out a hand toward Brock.

 

Brock eyed him then clapped their hands together and stepped in. It trapped Phil against his own door, but he didn't bat an eye, he'd asked the other to share. Brock's synergy was loud but patchy, and Phil used his own to refine it, let them pass more detailed information.

 

It's never like telepathy. It's a combination of image flashes and impressions, leaving Phil with bitterness and disgust and warm skin that made him jerk away in a flighty moment of distress. Brock also jerked away, their hands parting, looking caught out by the warmth and affection and safety that still permeated Phil's airspace, the ghost of Nick.

 

"I can try to get you reassigned." Phil said before really realizing it. "This isn't a good situation, for a Dog or anyone else."

 

He sneered again but his heart wasn't in it. "We chose to serve. It doesn't matter who I'm assigned to, Pierce is Council. You're just protected."

 

"No. Our bodies are ours. That fight was won in the 80s, for fuck's sake. We have consent and can revoke it." He reached out, grabbed Brock's arm.

 

He blinked, and smiled a little before tugging his arm away. "Thanks, but you don't need to protect me, Coulson."

 

"Yes I do. Who do we really have except each other?" Dogs against the world.

 

"Protect your puppies." He waved Phil off, walking away. "Isn't the sniper too old for the serum?"

 

"He's not being offered it." Phil stayed where he was.

 

"Yeah. Sure he isn't. Go in your quarters before your happy synergy gets all over the floor because I'm not cleaning it up."

 

What happy synergy now, he wondered, but he hand-scanned into his quarters.

 

* * *

 

 

His suit steamed, pressed and hung up, and the shirt in his hamper, he sat at his computer terminal and read over Clint's file.

 

Clint wasn't the only recruit he'd recently picked out. Agents kept their eyes open for potential trainees from non-traditional locations. Usually SHIELD pulled from military or advanced placement programs depending on the division, but some of their best people? Former mercs or criminals.

 

Phil looked for skill, humor and lack of interaction with certain crimes. Violent crime or arson? Might be workable. Sexual or domestic crimes? No. Clint had worked as a hitman but his targets all had shown a certain 'take out the trash' attitude which had made Phil finger him for recruitment. Horribly obnoxious attitude or not, he was doing well with the agency. Clint was mouthy, funny, a little dark and a one-man wrecking crew once he got going. Yes, a discipline problem with only half an ear for orders and little tolerance for most authority, which annoyed the shit out of a lot of people but even they begrudged that Clint's shooting skills were probably second to none.

 

He would have made a great Dog, if he was interested, but he's five years too late. Twenty-six put Clint in his prime, still young really, but the serum was best given as young as possible. The older you got, the more resistant you got, the more it hurt. The serum rarely killed anyone anymore but the risk dramatically increased with each year.

 

Phil was biased and he recognized it. He likes Clint; the ops they'd done together had all gone well. That said he's only personally recommended two trainees for the serum in his entire career.

 

Becoming a Dog was the best choice he'd ever made that he'd wish on so very few people and the brush with Rumlow's situation had nicely reminded him that they are all second class citizens.

 

He laid on his back in bed, staring up at the ceiling as he mulled it over. Clint's file had marks, recommendations from his trainers, for further specialist training (spy shit) and suggestions he be considered for the Dog program. Just like Nick, Phil would love to synergize with Clint. He'd love to feel his sniper sizzle with readiness from a nest while Phil works spotter or overwatch.

 

But is he going to be the one to push Clint into the Dog program? No.

 

* * *

 

 

SHIELD sees action. They get into the thick of things and their expertise is strange situations and enemies, unusual threats. They're good enough at it to be well regarded worldwide, enough that allies will just call them if necessary.

 

Which did not make it easier when the intel came down the chain of command that a dozen trainees and low-level operatives were missing.

 

"Brief me." Phil stepped into the war room that had sprang up in response, senior agents volunteering to assist because their babies were missing and there was going to be hell to pay.

 

"Coulson. My screen. They were on an Op in Mexico." John Garrett gave Phil a hint of a feral smile as he shifted a display, showing actual last-known location on a real-time satellite map. "We're working on better visuals. One of the cartels decided to put their money into an attempted super soldier program."

 

"... I'm only shocked it took them this long." Some of the cartels in Mexico and points south had income higher than some GDPs around the world. "Did we go down to bust it up?"

 

"We helped raid the facility on the condition we take and ensure destruction of material involved, they accepted. Straightforward, probie training wheels with a few blooded agents and one senior. Raid was successful, potential attempt at a serum secured for transport."

 

"Until about two hours ago. We lost contact, last contact indicated the road was blocked by a truck." Maria Hill stepped over.

 

"Do not tell me we were taken down with such a simple trick." Phil rubbed his face.

 

"We don't know yet. Put together a team, Coulson, you're going down to find them. Request who and what you want, you're authorized."

 

"Yes sir." He paused as Garrett gave him the official list of agents missing, skimming it and going colder when he saw Barton was on the list.

 

"Yeah, I know, your guy wasn't supposed to be there. Last minute substitute, apparently, agent supposed to go has food poisoning." Garrett told him.

 

"We'll find them." Phil can allow no other option.

 

He grinned, all teeth. "And we'll burn the enemy down for touching them."

 

"And salt the fucking earth after. Someone find out if Rumlow's strike team is available to deploy. Garrett, requisition us a set of quinjets. We have already lost two hours I do not intend to lose another two."

 

* * *

 

 

There was a certain level of art to how the cartels worked, Phil knew, and none of it was subtle. They were big, monstrously brutal and had deep pockets. That allowed them to buy or bribe everything they needed to the point that the actual hold the local law enforcement agencies had was tenuous. Sure occasionally some rich cartel leader got busted, generally leading to lots of photos of mountains of cash money and gold plated guns, but someone always stepped in to fill the void.

 

It also meant that SHIELD didn't need to hold back. They just told local forces they were coming and to stay the fuck out of the way. Diplomatic it was not, but they weren't there for diplomacy.

 

Phil was back in a tac suit and a lash rig, thinking this would be fun if there weren't baby agents on the line.

 

"If the cartels have decided their balls are big enough to start kidnapping SHIELD agents it might be time to deal with them." John was also in a tac suit, and seemed loosely amused by it all.

 

"As much as I agree the Council will never agree to it. We'd have to mobilize a large portion of the operations department. It'd look like America was invading Mexico." Phil replied after reflecting for a moment.

 

"We could use more beaches." Brock just barely lifted an eyebrow.

 

"We can't even decide what we're doing with the Virgin Islands or Puerto Rico."

 

"There is nothing virgin about those islands."

 

They all just shared a smile. Dogs may not be able to vote, but get laid? With relative ease. Plenty of civvies were willing to screw a Dog just to say they did. Hell its half the reason they haven't let the agency remove the "Dog" note from their, well, dog tags.

 

"The cartels trying to escalate is troubling." Phil said after a beat.

 

"Everyone's trying to escalate, mostly because of the USA." John grunted. "Captain America, Dogs, Weapon X. We built nukes, world wants nukes. We made super soldiers, world wants those too. Only thing is a bomb's apparently easier to make."

 

"You aren't wrong. Biology is a fickle mistress."

 

"Some others have pulled it off. Russian ballerina cats, and what the fuck is that British pretentiousness? The Kingsmen?" Brock supplied.

 

"Hey, their pretentiousness comes with bulletproof suits. I want one." Phil replied. "No one has ever explained to me why the Red Room girls are called cats. Maybe just to distance themselves from us."

 

"She's beauty, she's grace, she'll claw off your face." John hummed.

 

"Girls if you're done gossiping we're half an hour outside our drop zone and we now have better satellite coverage." The pilot announced.

 

"Thanks for the heads-up." Phil is cheerful, because they all flipped off the pilot at once. No synergy needed.

 

* * *

 

 

Clint was sort of resigned. The situation sucked, but honestly, he's been through some shit. Nothing done to him so far has been worse than anything done to him before. The probies, well, they've been through ops training and they're tough enough.

 

They've all been beat up a bit and threatened, in Spanish, bad English and okay English. Clint knows enough Spanish to have a general idea, anyway. Everyone knew that SHIELD will have realized, by now, that they've dropped off the map. The senior agent had tapped out in Morse that no, this is not SHIELD fucking with them, and yes, rescue should be coming.

 

Clint hates 'should' almost as much as he hates 'if.'

 

Mostly right now he hated that these assholes had them in a basement under a dance club. A very busy touristy well known dance club. Because that was too fucking clever. Where better to put usually noticeable whites (and others) who might scream? And how better to protect them than cover the area with civilians whose own noise would alert them that uniforms are moving?

 

One 'senior' agent, three blooded agents, eight probies, all tied up and sitting on the floor with guns held on them, listening to (definitely) drunk (probably) American tourists dance to a heavy bass beat above them. The entire stupid situation would be hilarious if it wasn't for the guns on them. It was still kind of funny. Probably they're worth enough money to rescue. He hoped he gets to see SHIELD agents tear into these guys and hoped they save some for him.

 

A woman in a club dress came down the stairs, mile long legs leading in stiletto heels. The group all turned to watch her descent, and Clint licked his lips before wolf whistling. One of the assholes jabbed him in the shoulder with the barrel of his gun in response, but he ignored the guy, everyone still watching the girl.

 

Especially when she went to the cases of maybe-serum and opened it, taking out one of the clear bottles to look at it before she walked over to them. "Americans. You nearly ruined a long and expensive plan."

 

They all said nothing, and Clint just reflected that the scrap of metallic silver fabric masquerading as a dress had kept him from considering her as a threat briefly. Probably she blended in just fine in the club as well.

 

"Nothing to say?" A manicured nail rattled on the bottle, and when they just continued to stare blankly, huffed and started speaking to the men in Spanish.

 

Clint didn't get all of it but he was able to tell none of it was good and that it involved what might be a super soldier serum, but might be draino. The lead agent lurched and got to her feet, hands still tied behind but shouldering a gun barrel aside, making herself a one person wall between her and the rest of the agents. Clint glanced at the other two blooded agents and they all clambered up, moving to join their SO, expressions hardening as they got between her and the probies.

 

"Get back on your knees!" One of the men barked, and was ignored, their focus on her.

 

"Brave and stupid." The woman frowned, then swapped back to Spanish. Clint had enough time to realize that wow, none of that sounded good before he was grabbed from the group and dragged forward, the others trying to move with him and shoved back.

 

He didn't so much give up as go feral. Fuck it, they're all in a stupid situation and who knew if or when rescue was coming. Only his hands are secure so he kicked, powered the heel of his boot into one of their knees and twisted at the same time. That got him out of the arms of one of them and he got his teeth into the other. Blood sprayed even as two more cartel assholes grabbed him again and then a stabbing sensation ripped through him, something sharp in his side.

 

Burning followed, bad enough he crumbled, ending up down on his knees then leaning forward as he fought the urge to vomit. Whatever that was it was not good and his body already wanted it out, now. "Fuck what did you do shoot me up with battery acid?" He gritted out.

 

His SO said something but what little was in range of his tunneling vision was stiletto high heels, one lifting and nudging him so he slumped to his side.

 

He better get a fucking bonus for this shit.

 

* * *

 

 

"I changed my mind. Let's burn these people to the ground." Phil decided, dumping his tac suit aside and stepping into slacks.

 

John tossed him an absolutely ridiculous white button-down. "Oh come on the store we just robbed had stuff that fit us."

 

Phil shrugged into it and was appalled at the fact that it was engineered to only button up partway. Hello chest hair. "You paid them right?"

 

"They're going to want to shake our hands tomorrow." Brock pulled on a polo shirt.

 

"You pull off fratbro douche a little too well."

 

"Fuck you Coulson I don't skip leg day."

 

"It was your idea to change clothes." Jasper said mildly.

 

"We'll never get near that place in tac suits."

 

Weapons were concealed and earpieces put in. It wasn't ideal but they've done a hell of a lot more with less. Once everyone was dressed Phil doled out stacks of emergency cash from one of the quinjet safes, and they stepped out as a group, wandering up the sidewalk toward the club.

 

It's smart. A location that took deliveries from trucks during the day and had huge mixed crowds at night. Great location for illicit dealings, in Phil's opinion. The cartels are getting smart and frankly it concerns him, but for now he pastes a big smile on his face as they pay their way past the club line and the bouncer, arriving in the place in a shower of American cash to cover up their sharp, sober eyes.

 

This has all taken far too long for Phil, every hour their people are in enemy hands reduces the chances of their survival, given the lack of ransom demands. Of course charging in like Rambo is even more likely to get their people killed.

 

With two agents outside to make sure the enemy doesn't try to move their people, they mingle, spend money and get plenty of attention. It was John that noted the back stairwell doors marked staff-only and the woman who came out. It was Brock that sidled up and wrapped an arm around her, smiling nice and charming while his synergy blared 'enemy' to the rest of the group.

 

Phil broadcast back and Brock relayed it before yelling for attention, one arm still around the woman who had just realized he was not going to let her go.

 

"Hey! There's a private party downstairs! Let's crash that shit!"

 

The crowd was drunk, high and good with that, cheers and screams echoing. Phil got the Strike team moving and made sure their people led the way down the stairs. One quick move sent the guard that tried to stop them away. Brock was all but carrying the woman in the silver dress, who was yelling in Spanish and being entirely ignored.

 

Down the stairs they went, the crowd sweeping in with them then the air was full of screams as the civilians saw thugs with guns and freaked out. The rifle toting men clearly weren't prepared to open fire on partying tourists, and barely had the guns brought to bear when the Strike team fell on them.

 

Phil indicated those he wanted alive. The woman, two others. They could have easily shot them all from the stairs, but this was about sending a message. Knives gleamed silver and black under the fluorescent lights, and almost all of them were triangle blades, because when SHIELD sent a message they didn't send it with flowers.

 

By the time they'd dropped the enemy most of their own were on their feet and turned to show the ropes holding their upper arms and the zip ties around their wrists. Phil switched to a switchblade and got a few of them free, passing knives to them so they could work on the others before he directed his attention to the two agents down. John was already there and he joined him just in time for one of them to convulse and still. "Report."

 

"The serum is in those cases. That fucking BITCH shot them up. Same goddamn needle too." The lead agent, a woman named Willoughby if Phil remembered right, came to join them.

 

"Pack that shit up and these three pricks too." Brock said, having zip tied the woman in the silver dress. "We need Evac."

 

Phil already has his hand at his ear because the two agents standing watch can help drive getaway. "We put the injured and the serum in the first Humvee. The prisoners and guards in the second. The rest of us can double-time back to the other two."

 

"Coulson?" Barton wanted to know from the floor.

 

Phil responded by helping him up to his knees and holding him steady as he vomited, then picked him up in a fireman carry. "And those orders are for right now, people." John grabbed the other injured Agent and did the same, grunting about heavy-ass kids as he did.

 

"No back stairwell, we're going out through the club." Jasper reported.

 

"Just remember to keep your orders vocal. We aren't Dogs." Willoughby had one of the cartel assault rifles.

 

"How the fuck did this happen, Agent?" Phil wanted to know, letting Brock organize everyone. Two of the probies followed two of the strike team up the stairs, Phil climbing up behind them, Clint's shaking body still on his shoulders.

 

"They had weapons on kids sir."

 

He didn't inquire further. The club was half empty and one of the strike team popped a few rounds off into the ceiling, which cleared the way for them.

 

There was still a line waiting to enter outside even as two SHIELD marked Humvees skidded up and put tires on the sidewalk. The bouncer held the door open as they exited, and didn't even seem impressed.

 

Phil set Clint into one of the Humvees, helped load the serum in the trunk, and gave the bouncer a company card in passing as he got half the group moving for the other vehicles. Even once they get to the quinjet they're a few hours from the nearest SHIELD base. Military is closer, though probably not set up for this kind of trauma.

 

"So, that invasion of Mexico, still off the books?" John asked via radio.

 

"Ask me later."


	3. Chapter 3

"Will they live?" It was a heavy question and Phil knew it. They'd been on base two hours, which was long enough for initial triage on patients.  
  
"Yes." The SHIELD doctor agreed, after a beat.  
  
"But?" Fury wants to know.  
  
"It'll take quite a bit longer for a proper assessment of the substance they were dosed with, however, at this time we can agree it's a supersoldier serum. Just not a very good one."  
  
"So, poison, an uncontrolled mutagen or both." Phil's heart sank a bit, even as his voice stayed steady and his face impassive.  
  
"There's good news here. They got a fraction of what would really be necessary to make the change, and we're the most experienced people at combatting this. That said, they're nauseated and in pain and at this time we don't know if they'll change at all."  
  
"One of our interrogation specialists spoke to the woman. She's the most in the know." Fury said after a beat. "Her charming way of putting it was calling them toy soldiers. Looks like the cartel wanted them strong and dumb. She didn't know if there was any loyalty rigging in the serum."  
  
"That's a potential problem." Phil glanced at Nick then back to the doctor. "What are our options?"  
  
"Right now we're running a counter course. It should put down deviated cells if there are any, and counter any toxic effects. They should recover but, until the lab finishes studying the serum we can't make any definite statements. That said, from what I've seen it's a shit serum. Weak on positives, lot of negatives."  
  
"So our serum would plow it over." Nick stated.   
  
"Without much effort." The doctor agreed. "There's only a few serums on the planet that wouldn't be consumed by SHIELD's serum. It's designed to win that fight."  
  
Phil managed not to wince. "We'll have to talk to them before we really consider that an option. At this point, if the current treatment works..."  
  
"I agree. Their choice has already been removed once on this topic. I don't intend to do so again." The doctor agreed.  
  
"I've told Mexico that we'll transfer the prisoners to their care in five days. I'll have them questioned more before they leave." Nick moved to leave. "Coulson? Reassure your puppy then start writing reports on this clusterfuck."  
  
"Yes sir."

* * *

  
  
Clint was on his back, arm not occupied by an IV tossing a ball of paper up and down. His complexion was better than when Phil had picked him up, but was still sickly and sweat-sheened.  
  
"Bored?"  
  
He caught the paper before looking, then managed a smile, shuffling to prop himself on his elbows with effort. "Coulson, sir."  
  
"I'm sorry we weren't there in time." He moved from the doorway, settling in the chair by the bed.  
  
Clint shrugged. "You came. 'S more than anyone else have ever done for me."  
  
"That doesn't mean it’s good enough." He shook his head slightly.  
  
He smiled again, then sobered. "The doc says we'll live. Stuart and I. But we might be fucked up, pardon the French."  
  
"Right now, they seem to have reasonable confidence the treatment will deal with it." He nodded at the IV.  
  
Clint fidgeted with the sheets, with one hand. "I wanted to ask you some stuff. About the dog program."  
  
"You're a bit old for it at this point. And you lose rights, don't forget that."  
  
He snorted. "If they can be lost they aren't rights, they're privileges."  
  
"Thanks, George Carlin, but the point stands."  
  
"Look, I was almost a felon. The only reason I'm not is because you guys decided I'm awesome and recruited me instead. Made that shit go away. The stuff I give up by becoming a dog? Pretty similar to what felons lose. Hell, dogs still get to have guns."  
  
"Yeah, but a felon can own a house."  
  
"Look at me. You see a future house owner? White picket fence and trimmed bushes?"  
  
"I wouldn't dream of telling you no because you'd get one just to thumb your nose at me."  
  
He half laughed before wincing, sliding to lay back down, head turned to keep his eyes on Phil. "You don't want me to do it."  
  
".. that's hard for me to answer. I think I want you in my pack enough that I wouldn't want you to suffer." He admitted. "You said you had questions."  
  
"What is it actually like? Don't dodge me this time. Seriously, what changes?"  
  
"We're not as good as Rogers was... but we're a reasonable shadow. You'll get tired slower, and also sleep harder. You'll hit harder, lift more weight at higher reps. Run faster on short sprints, run longer as well. There are humans that can keep up but they have to constantly train to do it. We don't. Yeah we spend time in the gym but it's a fraction what a non-dog would have to spend to keep this up." Phil paused. "I'm a guard dog. We're defense, command, tactics, that shit. Rumlow? He's an attack dog. Offense. We can take each other's roles but we're built for what we do. We're loyalty coded to SHIELD command, so any of the Council? If they give us a direct order, we can't deny it under most circumstance. We also can't betray them. Even if we wanted to."  
  
“...that part is creepy as hell."  
  
"A lot of people think that way. I don't see it as any different than anything a soldier swears to. Mine's just blueprinted in. And there's something else. Dogs are all on the same wavelength."  
  
Clint blinked. "You... can read each other's minds?"  
  
"Not exactly. We can swap information and coordinate without speaking. It's difficult to explain, because it isn't telepathy or empathy, as most would understand those. We call it synergy."  
  
He stared at the ceiling for a few beats. "About a week ago I was told I was eligible for the program but that window would close fast."  
  
"Age. The older you are the more it hurts. The more traumatic it is. I was still a teenager when I took it."  
  
He looked back to Phil. "Are you happy?"  
  
That caught Phil out, a bit, because it wasn't something he often considered. Still he's able to answer almost immediately. "I am. I love my job. I like knowing that I help protect people and I like having a front seat to the crazy shit on this planet that few people know happens. I have friends here. I can't imagine doing anything else."  
  
"But is that you? Or what they program into you?"  
  
"Ah. Can they program the serum to do that? They tried that once or twice and it was entirely a failure. Brain chemistry is difficult and that works in our favor. It used to be bad. We had next to no agency over ourselves. We do now."  
  
".. alright. I believe you."  
  
"This is no one's choice but yours. If you want to just continue with this, that's fine."  
  
"What if it isn't enough?"  
  
"We cross that bridge when we come to it. Worse comes to worse you'll end up a noncombatant. Work the back end for the same pay because you were injured on duty."  
  
"You know for being the summation of all conspiracy theories about black suits and black helicopters this place isn't bad sometimes." Clint shuddered, rubbing at his face with one hand.  
  
Phil stood and set a hand on one of Clint's shoulders gently. "Rest. I'll check on you and Stuart later."  
  
"Yes sir."

* * *

  
  
Procedure and habit made the start of the report writing easy, anyway. By the time he was back in his little office, his email was full of reports from the strike team, different members writing up their take on the extraction. Willoughby had also gotten a basic report in with a note that she was working on the detailed version. That was more than enough for Phil to start working on the investigative report.  
  
He spent the next two days talking to the rescued agents. The story is consistent, not that he'd suspected Willoughby of lying. It was clearly one of those situations that should not have happened. SHIELD is too damn good for this sort of stupidity to shut down an operation and nearly kill agents.  
  
He also managed to talk to their prisoners before they're shipped back to Mexico (totally healthy and untouched, SHIELD has always found that well-trained interrogators get what they want just by having conversations with the target), and mostly found it discouraging. SHIELD had been caught out by idiots.  
  
He ends up recommending that no mission going forward is majority probies. He's not sure that would have prevented the event but it's a start.  
  
He's actually in the gym on the sparring mats when a ripple crosses the boundary of his synergy, a weak flutter of pain and confusion before going silent again. He paused and bounced back a few steps on his toes, quirking a brow at Jasper. "New dog?"  
  
"New dog. Might be your boy Barton but there were other approvals pending." Jasper agreed, also coming back to a ready stance.  
  
"All the potential dogs are good choices. They'll likely flourish in the program."  
  
He snorted. "Barton wants to impress you. You left one hell of an impression when you grabbed him."  
  
Phil half-smiled. "Beating the shit out of a roomful of goons does tend to leave an impression."  
  
"Yeah no shit, you didn’t leave any fun for us. Now come at me, lazy-ass."  


* * *

  
  
All Dogs knew the arc the serum took. Steve Rogers had spilled out of a capsule in less time than some microwave dinners, or hell, less time than to really prepare cup noodles. The secrets to Captain America were lost, Vita-Rays all but a myth, a one-off. The Dog serum worked but it took time. Depending on the person it was three to four days for the serum to run its course, then two to three days for recovery. Hell week by any other name. The first twenty-four hours were the worst, usually at some point on the second day the candidates could get a little rest and hold conversations again.  
  
Which is when some Dogs usually drifted by and started keeping them company and talking to them. Most agreed it was important to reassure them. Everyone vividly remembered their change and knowing they had support helped. And yes, it helped reassure the candidate they made the right decision. Being born hurts and you're being born to a new family. A family of violent twitchy soldiers who were usually the last line between strange threats and the public.  
  
Coming onto the dog medical ward when new dogs (four total, hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of dollars in serum per candidate) were being made always made Phil remember the being born part. In his generation it had been part of a speech from command. Nick had told him he'd hate it before saying it. Phil had a few chuckles during it. Now they just try to let the other dogs provide support. There's indoctrination, and there's acting like you're in a goddamn cult.  
  
Clint looked both better and worse, the sickly sheen replaced by the dull-eyed exhaustion that came from over twenty-four hours of pain consistently at a nine or ten on the pain scale. Still, he sort-of perked up when Phil appeared in the doorway. "Hey. Everyone is visiting and being super nice to me. It's fucking creepy."  
  
He laughed and stepped into the room, moving to sit beside the hospital bed. Clint grunted and mashed the bed controls until he was sitting up more. "Yeah, that's something we always do. We like the puppies to feel like they made a good choice."  
  
"Not like I can take it back right? So much money has gone into me through IVs you'd think they're gold plating my veins or some shit. You saying hi like everyone else?"  
  
"I said I'd check on you. You didn't do this to impress me did you?"  
  
"Nah. It's probably a lot harder to do that." He grinned, all teeth and tired pain. "I know I'm supposed to trust everyone here, and I know it's fucked up to trust the guy that arrested me. But if there's anyone in this place I want always at my back it's you. If running with the big dogs means being one so be it man."  
  
He blinked. "You had me at your back anyway. You're fantastic." It's sincere and his brows draw together when that makes Clint try to laugh. "What?"  
  
"You don't like being my reason."  
  
".. You might be right. No one's ever cited me as the reason they took the serum. Some see it as duty to country, some want the power and edge it provides. Usually it's both."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"And some of us are Captain America fanboys."  
  
That made Clint try to laugh again. "Help me up so I can go piss, man."  
  
Phil stood and offered both hands, helping Clint out of bed. Clint's in a hospital gown and on an IV, he just grabbed the rolling stand as he struggled up. "Are you supposed to be up right now?"  
  
He did the grin again. "Of course not."  
  
Now Phil had to laugh even as he helped Clint stumble to the bathroom because the serum wasn't likely to improve Clint's attitude problem, and Phil doesn't even care.


	4. Chapter 4

It's not Phil's job, but he made sure that the new Dogs have new housing assignments anyway.  
  
Happily, none of the candidates had private property to liquidate. They either hadn't wanted to rent or purchase property, or had known they might be up for the Dog program. So it was just a matter of making sure the proper departments know who's making the change and empties their current SHIELD quarters, delivering their neatly boxed possessions to pack housing.  
  
SHIELD was used to having to house agents. Agents traveled constantly and hotels weren't always secure enough or available. So, every SHIELD base had housing, usually clean little bedrooms with locker rooms on the floor. Not much, but comfortable and secure, and generally not barracks.   
  
Dogs automatically got private rooms at their assigned base. It was part of the deal that came with the serum: Dogs were looked after. Free room, board and medical. As such they still usually used locker rooms unless they were high-rank enough for a tiny private bathroom, but the bedrooms were larger than a traveling agent's. Each room had a lot of built-in storage space, a double bed, and a small living area. Dog building floors also usually had communal kitchens and rec rooms. A blend of hotel, dorm and apartment, not fancy but private enough and guaranteed for life.  
  
Phil went the extra mile and checked noted preferences in files, and made sure there was preferred takeout waiting for the puppies, since the rooms had mini-fridges. Even after multiple recovery days in medical, new dogs were sometimes tired, and usually hungry.  
  
He was out of state the day the puppies were released from medical, which only bothered him because of Clint. He was confident that the other Dogs had welcomed them home though, enough that he's relaxed as he reenters the base late that night, duffel bag in hand. There are still voices down the hall in the rec areas, and he just smiled about it and coded into his quarters.  
  
He's only been there a few minutes, duffel bag still on the bed half-unloaded, when his door was knocked on. He didn't bother checking the peephole before opening it, so he was pleasantly surprised to see Clint standing there in black BDUs and a shirt with the 'dog shield' on it (Captain America's shield, with a paw print instead of a star).  
  
He was further pleasantly surprised when Clint lunged and pounced on him, crashing their mouths together as his arms draped over Phil's shoulders. Phil caught him and kissed back, managing to shove his door closed before they got an audience. He barely had to offer before Clint's new synergy leaped to meet his, a chaotic rush of piecemeal information and sensation.  
  
The kiss broke and Phil almost laughed, leaning their foreheads together. "What was that for?"  
  
"Because you got me Indian food." Clint replied like it was obvious, burying his face into Phil's neck and shoulder. "This synergy thing is so weird."  
  
"It takes time to get used to let alone master." He kept Clint hugged close, smiling. "In the interest of full disclosure, Fury and I have been fucking for years and will likely continue to do so. So if you can handle that..."  
  
"Is that an invitation to watch because actually that sounds kind of hot." He shifted to look Phil in the eye. "I know this is sudden... but..."  
  
He grabbed Clint's ass and turned, walking them back so Clint was backed up to the bed. "But you can tell I'm alright with that. Yes. I am. It would be my pleasure to peel that shirt off you."  
  
"Fuck yes, please do."  
  
Clint's younger, and felt like liquid sound through their synergy, like being able to feel the bass before you really hear the music. It was a fascinating sensation but not enough to distract Phil from his task, and Clint seemed to find it hilarious that Phil saw taking him apart as a mission. Afterwards Clint sprawled mostly on top of Phil, and made low happy noises as Phil stroked his back. "Mmnn. So. You and Fury huh."  
  
"Yes. We're not together, exactly. We've been fucking for years, though. He tries not to show me obvious favoritism."  
  
"Rumlow calls you Fury's Dog."  
  
"He's not entirely wrong. Nick was my sponsor and we were friends before I took the serum."  
  
He laced his hands on Phil's chest, and set his chin on them. "Fury's not going to be pissed we did this is he?"  
  
"Shouldn't be. We're not in a committed relationship. We're fuckbuddies I guess, much as I've never been fond of the word."  
  
Clint considered. "I was serious by the way, watching you two would probably be really hot."  
  
"Mm. I'll mention it to him."  
  
"Sweet." 

* * *

  
  
New Dogs returned to training with the rest of their batch. Four isn't anywhere near a full class for Ops trainees but for Dogs, it was normal. They were expensive, after all.  Of the four in Clint's batch, two were attack dogs and two were guard dogs, and they'd already buddied up. Siblings in their new family.  
  
So yeah, they were going to be returned to training, flown to one of the primary training facilities. Not tonight, though.  
  
Restaurants near SHIELD all learned to recognize the badging. Agents were good customers, but expected fast on-point service. Bars and nightclubs also figured it out, because when you work hard sometimes you play hard. And a group of men and women, most wearing Dog Shield shirts, walking into your club? Brace for impact.  
  
Because Dogs weren't broke. Yeah they didn't make what normal agents made but they also had a fraction the expenses. Even some of their clothes were gratis because of the arrangement and they had company credit cards. They had their own spending money, and spend it they did.  
  
Phil had books and comics and Captain America collectables. And video games, which were endemic through all of SHIELD. There was a rack of games in the Dog rec room. Shooters and fighting games were often on screen, but relaxing games were too. Harvest Moon was extremely popular, for vicariously-living reasons.  
  
And on nights where they weren't on standby, the pack would synergy up and decide on what club to descend upon like the semi-wild animals they were. Oh sure, they were capable of classing it up and they had picked a nice place, but this was not an inhibited night.  
  
"What's with all the girls? And guys, holy shit." Clint asked, squeezing in at the bar between Phil and Jasper.  
  
"We're a fetish." Jasper said with a smirk, his scotch on the rocks mostly gone.   
  
"Wait, seriously?"  
  
"Yes. Our favorite hangout places are kind of known, and some people fantasize about screwing us. Some people have a thing for uniforms. It's similar to that." Phil hummed. "They know we're strong, fit and not looking for emotional connection. We don't get married or have kids. So we're a one-night stand with no loose ends."  
  
"Damn. Yeah I guess that makes sense." Clint reflected, frowning.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Just seems kind of lonely. Hadn't considered that."  
  
Phil laughed out loud. "Really?" They're close enough that he barely has to twist before he can lean their foreheads together, pressing notaloneNEVERalone through their synergy.  
  
"... fuck. Warn a guy."  
  
"Yeah, shit, you had some spillover there." Jasper frowned at Phil.  
  
"Really? What color was it?"  
  
"Eye-searing orange and purple."  
  
"What?" Clint blinked.  
  
"I have synergy synesthesia. While I still get information I see it as images and color washes." Jasper explained. "Took me forever to master interpreting it. Strangely what I broadcast isn't seen as color."  
  
"Huh."  
  
"Hey, bro, come on." One of the other puppies came and glommed onto Clint, pulling him away from the bar and to the dance floor. Clint just gave them both a sheepish smile and went.  
  
"He'll be fine." Jasper decided.  
  
"Yeah. They all will be." Phil agreed. "We won't allow anything else."


	5. Chapter 5

"Agent Coulson."  
  
"Sir." The response is automatic, the tone of Fury's voice letting him know what mode they're in. "You wanted to see me?"  
  
"I was wondering if you'd be my strong arm today."  
  
Phil's smile was entirely internal. "Of course, sir."  
  
They both enjoyed the cognitive dissonance it gave people. Between them, Nick seemed more intimidating. Taller, huge presence assisted by an eyepatch and a habit of wearing black. Plus, the fact that SHIELD staff knew he was a cutthroat son of a bitch that got a high rank early because no one could stand in his way (but if you stood behind him, you got treated fair). Phil, like a lot of guard Dogs, blended. Average height white male, his muscle entirely hidden by a well-tailored suit, expression schooled neutral. This carefully manufactured appearance meant he was the summation of what every American pictured when they thought Federal Agent. Most people didn't even consider that Phil (and most guard Dogs) might in fact be a Dog. The public tended to picture someone like Rumlow. If Rumlow was a Malinois, Coulson was a Labrador. Either way, their "bites" hurt.  
  
"I have to play politics today. If I show up with a bodyguard it'll get them off center, which is how I want them. Should be long and boring though." He considered Phil. "You up for it?"  
  
"For you sir? Always."  


* * *

  
  
Politics are generally left to the council. It's inevitable that a semi-clandestine group like SHIELD, that operates worldwide, is seen as something of a political football. They haven't been officially tied to any government collapses at least.  Mostly because they're too busy trying to contain weird crap.  
  
Public opinion was wildly varied, mostly because there wasn't a lot of public information. Most civilians had no idea what the FBI and CIA did, but whatever those agencies did, the public seemed to figure SHIELD was that, plus aliens and super soldiers. Conspiracy theorists generated thousands of pages of diatribes yearly about what they thought SHIELD was up to, especially since the internet was starting to be a thing.  
  
And of course sometimes those wingnuts got elected.  
  
The meeting started out with Phil being called a Life Model Decoy and went straight downward from there. Phil kept a straight face, and spent the meeting watching Nick contemplate various forms of murder and calculating how much alcohol would be necessary after this.  
  
"Are you going to answer any of my questions?" The senator demanded after being stonewalled for half an hour.  
  
"If you ask one I can answer." Nick replied, watching the man seethe. "I have no idea why you scheduled this meeting at this point, besides to apparently satisfy a fetish for insulting my employees."  
  
The senator sputtered.   
  
"We're done here. I'd say show yourself out but I think I'll let Agent Coulson show you out. I advise you let him do so."  
  
Phil stepped forward and gestured for the senator to stand. The senator stood but started in on Nick not having the right to kick him out, so Phil took his arm gently to pull him away.  
  
The senator wrenched away. "Keep your science projects off me."  
  
He looked to Nick, then took off his sunglasses, hooking them to his suit pocket. "You're right about that. I am a science project. You just have the wrong one. Now move." He let the last two words growl, in spite of how much it fucked up his throat, but the senator spooked and moved.  
  
Once he'd seen the man fully from the building and made sure the security doors had latched behind him, he returned to Nick's office. "Area 51, Project Paperclip and LMDs. All the top hits among conspiracy theorists, I'm amazed he left out Dogs."  
  
"This is why I hate dealing with politicians." Nick slouched and groaned, rubbing his eyes with one hand.  
  
"Let the Council deal with them."  
  
"They asked me to speak to him."  
  
He blinked. "Why?"  
  
"To waste my time presumably." He straightened up then stood, picking up his jacket. "Your poker face was, as always, horrifyingly impressive."  
  
"Thank you sir."  
  
"How are the puppies?"  
  
"Off to expanded training two days ago."  
  
"How was Barton?"  
  
He didn't wonder how Nick knew. "Athletic. Wants to watch us sometime."  
  
That made Nick lift an eyebrow. "You're lucky I share."  
  
Phil looked at his bare hands, then lifted an eyebrow back at Nick. "What, are you going to make an honest Dog out of me, sir?"  
  
He snorted. "An honest Dog, hell no, I'd never dream of it. Come on, you're buying me a beer and I'm buying you a burger."  
  
"Of course sir." He has to smile. Some things in life were consistent, at least.  


* * *

  
  
Agents get hurt. Soldiers and law enforcement agents get in the line of fire and SHIELD exists in some ambiguous ground between those. They're aware of the risk and just try to minimize it, and hope that if it happens it's for a good reason.  
  
Other times, it's a god damn comedy show.  
  
"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Coulson wanted to know, scowling at Clint, who was sitting on a hospital bed bandaged up. "Throwing yourself out a window? Really?"  
  
Clint scowled right back, because Phil is seated on the bed next to him, dealing with a medic changing his bandages. "Oh and you're one to talk. Not one but two gunshot wounds? Not even related to our Op? Who gave you the right to be a big god damn hero?"  
  
"You're both stupid." Nick suggested from the doorway, arms crossed. "And I hate coming down here."  
  
They cringed in unison.  
  
"Though I have to say, very impressive. I swear, you two assholes coordinated this shit. Coulson, I have a commendation for you from the Florida State Police. Barton, some stunt double school wants your resume, thanks so much for pulling that shit in view of the public. And making Coulson rip his stitches out to retrieve you from the top of a BMW."  
  
"I was aiming for the Ferrari."  
  
Nick pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
"I tore stitches out?" Phil wanted to know, looking over his shoulder at the medic. "Oh. You are doing stitches."  
  
The medic muttered darkly about Dogs and their notorious pain resistance (caused by the fact that their brains dumped more endorphins to muffle the pain away).   
  
"Every time. Every time I send agents to Florida they come back having gone through the grinder. Even the base down there has a higher rate of stupid bullshit. And then I send you two and it becomes a three ring circus." Nick seethed. "I do not like seeing my people on the nightly fucking news unless it's controlled."  
  
"How was that footage?" Clint wanted to know.  
  
"... like a movie. You launching your dumb ass out a window trying to shoot one of your trick arrows to save your ass..."  
  
"Hey, it did, my back isn't broken!"  
  
"...while dodging jets of god damn flame that lit the building opposite on fire..."  
  
"The thunderstorm we were in didn't let it really catch though." Phil supplied. "That's why we moved on that guy then, everything was wet, harder for a super powered firebug to work."  
  
Nick's glower could have killed a lesser man. "Never-fucking-mind you were shot a day and a half previous."  
  
"We got the firebug. And the Staties I helped got their perp too."  
  
"You aren't a god damn policeman!"  
  
"They called for assistance! We were a block over!"  
  
"It could have been worse; the guy ran out of shotgun shells right before he tagged Phil." Clint pointed out. "Not that I am fucking pleased you got shot you asshole!"  
  
"It was a .22!"  
  
".38." The medic said. "You were just lucky."  
  
Nick groaned. "Why did I decide letting you two work together was a good idea?"  
  
"Because we're that good?" Clint asked after a beat.  
  
"I swear to god I will send you both to Antarctica!"  
  
"You wouldn't! My ass is too good for snow pants."  
  
Nick looked at the medic. "He either needs less drugs or more drugs."  
  
Phil was laughing, which hurt his bullet wounds but he didn't care.   
  
"Oh, keep laughing, I will permanently assign you to bodyguard duty for the Council."  
  
"They both need time off." The medic finished with Phil, tightening the bandages enough he protested. "This one on non-combat light duty until the stitches are out. That one the same until he can pass the physical test again."  
  
"Their butts are going to be stuck reviewing reports for the foreseeable future." He smirked at Clint's disgust and Phil's resignation. "Yeah you both are. And you'll do so on the carrier so you can't do anything exciting while recovering. Deal with it."  
  
"Yes sir."

"Aw, man."


	6. Chapter 6

Travel is a part of the job. Worldwide, fast and almost always at agency cost, it'd be a dream come true for most. Phil mostly considered it necessary, and it was only sometimes enjoyable.  
  
Right now, it's another kind of joy, that of the chase. He and Clint have been halfway around the world, chasing leads, because one of the Red Room members is off the leash. They're two Dogs, chasing a Cat. If not for the whole spies-and-assassins thing, it'd be a comedy.  
  
They only know a Red Room girl is AWOL because the Red Room is looking for her, and they only know that because of intel. The Red Room isn't nearly as strong as it used to be during the Cold War, but it still operates. It's not a publicly known project; rather something Agent Carter had been made aware of in the wake of World War II, the full framework not known for years.  
  
Why one of their people is AWOL, SHIELD has no idea. Cats, like Dogs, supposedly have loyalty coded in. It's rare for super soldier projects to get away, but this one had and it had done so silently until the Red Room itself had, by all reports, lost its shit.  
  
Delicate and complicated situation. SHIELD definitely wants the loose Cat captured but has to do so without letting Mother Russia know. America and Russia are on alright terms after all, no reason to fuck it up.   
  
Leading to this. Phil and Clint, in tourist-local clothing in Thailand, trying to flow with the crowd as they chased yet another lead.  
  
"She's good, whoever she is." Clint said begrudgingly, working on some ridiculous tourist drink that's served inside a coconut with other fruit involved.   
  
Phil also had one. Both had gotten virgin coconut drinks but anyone watching didn't know that. "She's from the Room, of course she is."  
  
"Remind me what the plan is?" They're walking slow and mingled in a mixed crowd. Anyone experienced would be able to peg them as possible operators even in civilian clothes and relaxing, so they're trying to use the pedestrian crowd to hide that fact.  
  
"At this point nothing is set. We find her and make an offer. Hope she doesn't try to kill us so we don't have to try to kill her."  
  
"I don't think I like this plan."  
  
"I hate this plan." He smiled and took a slurp from his coconut.  
  
"Have you met a Cat before?"  
  
"Only at a distance during scheduled meetings, both of us on bodyguard detail. Never had to fight one, at least, not officially." He saw the look. "It was years ago. They get the Cat label because they're definitely more on the spy end than soldier end. Dogs tend to be soldiers. Strength and constitution buffed. Cats are buffed for dexterity. Yes, I've been playing a lot of video games lately."  
  
He was laughing softly. "I get what you're saying."  
  
"They're the most successful program besides us and the Kingsmen, and for good reason. It's strange they've lost control of one of their people. Something dramatic must have happened or they're losing control of the program in general. Either way it isn't a good indicator of stability, which we don't like."  
  
"You have a serious hard-on for the Kingsmen, sir."  
  
"I appreciate fine art. You'll understand once you meet them."

* * *

  
  
Intel seemed to indicate they're in the right place, at least, but the Cat had misled them twice so far. One of those times had led to them wasting a week in Tokyo, checking strip clubs. When they'd figured it out, Clint had laughed his ass off and Phil had been begrudgingly respectful as well as amused. Their target had tricked them into a week of viewing high quality T&A.  
  
The fact that they haven't gotten wind of the KGB operating makes him wonder if they're tricked again. They'd actually drank with the KGB in Tokyo, because fuck it why not. It's still spy shit of course, no trust there but you can put a knowing smile on your face and shoulder your rival in a friendly way. They had. Possibly the KGB was still in Tokyo, lying their asses off so they could continue to trawl strip clubs. Which means the Room might not be here either. Phil's been keeping an eye out for a lily-white girl (they ARE Russian) with a ballet body anyway, not exactly a hardship to look for ones still on their team.  
  
It's a big, hot city full of white tourists, and with no fresh leads it's starting to feel like a strange vacation. He tries not to let his guard down and keep alert, but even Dogs weary of hypervigilance. Later he would try to take all blame for what ends up happening, because if she had felt violent they would have been dead. They're in a bar, having just ran down another old and dead lead, eating while they try to decide what to tell command. Phil's considering giving it twelve more hours before he scrubs the op and starts heading for home.  
  
Their bill gets set on the table then the girl is gone and Phil realizes a split second later, as Clint does, that that was NOT their waitress. The individual is already gone and there's a card under the bill with an address and a time. A trick? A trap? No way to tell.  
  
So of course it's a public place. A public tourist place. A goddamn Thai 'ladyboy' review that is, somehow, packed with white women. Phil has the distinct idea their target has a sense of humor.  
  
"Sir. What the fuck sir." Clint wanted to know as he was molested by two of the women.  
  
"I don't know, Hawk. But we're early. So let's sit down."  
  
They do, and they get drinks. The women are very nice at least, if loud and drunk. They're all together on a tourist junket apparently and other friends had told them they just HAD to come to this place. They accepted the 'friend asked to meet us here' explanation without question, of course, and were pleased to have some male companionship for the moment.  
  
Phil and Clint keep their synergy going because they can't really hold a conversation in this din. They agree: this is clever of their target. They're hemmed in, surrounded by soft civilians their target can blend with. The lighting works against them, the overwhelming sound works against them. They can't even get their backs to a wall. So Phil feels like a failure when an arm wraps around both their shoulders, the owner leaning down between their chairs.  
  
"Thank you for coming, Comrades."  
  
Dozens of ways she could have just killed them, in public or not. It takes every bit of willpower and experience for his shoulders to stay relaxed and in-character as he looks at her. Young, redheaded, fresh-faced with deathly serious eyes. He sees Clint on the other side, giving her the same sort of assessing stare that he is. "Well, you asked us so nicely. I do question your idea of a meeting spot."  
  
Her head tilted, just slightly. "I wanted to throw you off."  
  
"Mission accomplished." Clint said, tense.

 

She didn’t smile, but she seemed to be considering the idea. “Come along, Americans, let’s talk.”

 

They stood and followed her. It turned out there was seating away from the stage, and one of the staff was holding a corner booth for them, which let all of their backs be to the wall. Rather courteous, really, but they still ended up clustered together in a corner holding drinks, maintaining the appearance of friends for the civilians they’re surrounded by.

 

“How long have you known we’ve been following you?” Phil asked, considering her.

 

“I have had Americans, as well as Britons, Russians and possibly Chinese, attempting to follow me for over eight weeks.” She didn’t bat an eye. “It was not always you. It was another American organization, before your people stepped in. They were more obvious. I knew Dogs got involved when you became shadows.”

 

“I think I’m flattered.” Clint quirked a brow.

 

“I actually saw both of you in Tokyo. I got a rather good look actually.”

 

Phil peered at her. “… You were at one of the strip clubs.”

 

“Yes. I was. I saw you as well as the KGB. They were looking for a pale redhead.” She gestured at herself. “Not a well-tanned blonde with flower and butterfly tattoos on her legs.”

 

Clint blinked. “You owe me at least twenty dollars in singles, now that you’re done having fun at our expense.”

 

“You assume I’m done. I’m simply curious enough to ask why America is so interested in me.”

 

“Well, America taking in loose Russian weaponry is a bit of a tradition. It’s the old story, hoping for intel in exchange for offering protection.”

 

“You think you could protect me?”

 

“No.” Clint replied bluntly. “But I think we’d try. People like us are never entirely safe. I’m not going to try to sell you on freedom or apple pie either. Well, maybe apple pie.”

 

She blinked at Clint, then looked at Phil. “Interesting tactic.”

 

“You wouldn’t believe it, and we’re Dogs. We bartered some of our freedom for power.” He shrugged. “We’re not going to wave a flag and bang on about America and truth, justice, and freedom. We’re just going to suggest that where we’re going, there’s freedom of movement and the option to not kill people.”

 

She quirked an eyebrow. “Even for me?”

 

“I’m not so much a fool as to think I can order a cat to do anything.”

 

She looked back to Clint, and nodded at Phil. “Do you trust him?”

 

“Yeah. He’s actually a pretty good guy. And he met me by arresting me, so I wasn’t exactly initially predisposed to thinking about him in a real positive light.”

 

“You aren’t attack dogs.” She said it as a statement.

 

Phil didn’t bat an eye. Most of the intelligence community understood the States had two main kinds of Dogs. “No ma’am. We’re guard dogs.”

 

She tapped a fingernail on her half-empty glass. “I’ve spent my time protecting the interests of my country. It was my duty. It would be interesting, to protect people instead.”

 

“I promise it will rarely be boring.”

 

“… You may call me Natasha.”

 

He offered his hand. “I’m Phil. This is Clint. Do I need three first class tickets to America?”

“Yes, I rather think you do.”

 

“Awesome.” Clint grinned.

 

“But only if I get to work with you both. I have been observing you. It will be easier to continue to do that, while learning how things will be different.”

 

Phil blinked slowly. “That will be harder to promise.”

 

“But you’ll do it.”

 

“I can promise to try.”

 

“That might be enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to do something a bit different regarding Natasha. I'm not sure I pulled it off, hopefully I did. Let me know.


	7. Chapter 7

Clint was right about one thing: Coulson and Fury looked fantastic together.  
  
They're not even really doing anything. They're standing at a screen talking, Fury with one hand on his hip, other hand up to manipulate the display. Phil was also doing so, shuffling windows on the display as they talked. They're side by side, Phil almost in the shadow of Fury's long coat on his bad side, clearly used to being in each other's space, to breathing the same air.  
  
Natasha Romanov (likely not her real name, but that postulates her having a real name, and they're not going to ask at this point) had given them some intel. Not a lot on the Red Room itself, but plenty on other things. Other persons and locations of interest. So now they're in one of intel's ready rooms with some other staff, Clint and Natasha watching as Phil and Nick discuss what she said, the potential veracity of it and how it will impact potential operations.  
  
"They are lovers." Natasha stated this quietly, eyes on the mismatched pair as they worked.  
  
"Yeah." Clint blinked at her.  
  
"And he is... not troubled, by that."  
  
"Which he, Phil? I don't know firsthand but from what little he's said about it he's enthusiastic about it, because they've been a thing for a long time." He considered, then frowned. "Don't worry about that. That shit doesn't happen here anymore. It isn't supposed to anyway."  
  
Her hum was noncommittal. "They don't believe what I've said."  
  
"Around here we've got a saying, trust but verify. You haven't made it to that 'trust' part yet." Fury replied, having turned to look at Natasha, one eyebrow up. "We only really have your word on any of this. Realistically your situation is an idea way to get a sleeper agent into this agency."  
  
She considered that assessment. "And Russia chasing me only would lead credence to that story, not that I am actually defecting. It's a clever idea, but it does mean I will have considerable difficulty proving my story."  
  
"Yes, it does. The fact that you didn't hurt my Dogs does help, of course. In fact, from all reports you all but took them on a tourist junket."  
  
"Really, sir?" Phil looked at him, mildly exasperated.  
  
"So we're going to check your intel. If it's right, I might decide you aren't malicious. If you gave more information on the Room that decision might come faster. At the very least it'd indicate you're burning that bridge instead of keeping it an escape route."  
  
She pressed her lips together.  
  
"She's not sure she's staying." Phil's voice is mild. "She was just intrigued enough to meet you in person."  
  
"Hnn. Well, I'm not exactly a PR rep."  
  
"You sold it to me just fine. None of us have ate in a while, sir."  
  
Nick eyed Phil before nodding. "Alright. You, Barton, Romanov. Come on, let's fix that."  
  
"You're eating with us?" Natasha was genuinely surprised.  
  
"Don't get used to it. I'm busy and spend a lot of time on the carrier. But, apparently I have to sell you a bridge in Brooklyn and I may as well do it with my Dogs at hand."  
  
Clint stood and didn't bother offering Natasha a hand up, wondering idly when he'd also became Fury's dog, and why that didn't bother him. Probably it was loyalty programming. Possibly it was because he was still interested in seeing them both naked. Either way, hey, food!  


* * *

  
  
Their late lunch went well, at least.  
  
Natasha was slow to trust, but did give more information as the week went on. She seemed to equate intel with her relative worth and was concerned if she gave it all at once they'd kick her out into the cold. Phil countered this by giving her an equal amount of intel on SHIELD. She declined dog housing in favor of transient agent housing and that's when a curious fact about her, well, litter came to light.  
  
She couldn't broadcast, but she could hear synergy. Not well, but enough that being in dog housing lent the effect of a constant background murmur which made her feel a bit groundless and uneasy. She wasn't versed in it enough to get any real information.  
  
But, for fuck's sake she was all but a kid. Phil found himself ruminating on super soldiers being trained since children as he shaved. Rather jarring really but apparently normal for the Red Room, started in desperation in World War II. Back then, according to Natasha, they were just well trained spies. The Red Room didn't have any sort of serum until the sixties and yeah, it was stolen from America originally. It started very young as grueling ballet training then started to include combat training and indoctrination.  
  
Romanov on pointe, staring at them, had given Phil a mild phobia of ballet dancers. Shameful for a Dog but he's not sure he cared. That look for cold focus which could shift to violence in a split second had been deeply unsettling.  
  
"Holy shit, you own jeans?"  
  
Phil paused with the razor away from his face, glancing over his shoulder. "Very funny. You’ve seen me in jeans before.”  
  
Brock snorted and stepped over, leaning back against the sink next to Phil. “Interesting job with the cat. She’s been in gym on and off, watching us train. Handed Jack’s ass to him on a silver platter.”  
  
“She’s good or she wouldn’t have been alive for us to find.” He made the next pass with his razor. “You didn’t come in here to talk about her.”  
  
“Wrong, I didn’t only come in to talk about her.” He corrected. “You wouldn’t have brought back a real risk. You really figure she’ll fight for us?”  
  
“Don’t know. At this point she’s worth it even if our techs can just study her. It’ll give us more insight to the cat program, the intel on which has been pretty sketchy for years now.”  
  
Brock was quiet as Phil finished shaving and washed his face, considering the results after. “How’s the promotion?”  
  
“I hate it. I can already see what’s happening here.” He leaned on the sink and looked at Brock. “I’m being pushed up the chain into command staff, which is hilarious.”  
  
“You’re concerned about your service life.”  
  
“That’s my worry. I don’t think my performance slumped at all but someone, maybe Fury, maybe another member of command, decided my combat worthiness is running out and I’m better off in command.”  
  
He frowned. “You’re a guard dog. That’s kind of where you guys end up. Guard dogs end up in command and logistics, attack dogs end up in training.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it. How would you feel if command offered you a position training ops?”  
  
“I’d say I’m not ready. If it’s any consolation, it’s about god-damn time we had a dog in ops command and if I was going to pick any of us, it’d be you.”  
  
He half smiled as he packed up his shaving kit. “Thanks. You’ll still have my back in the field right?”  
  
Brock scoffed. “Of course I will, how will it look to anyone else if we let command get shot?”  
  
“Fuck you, Rumlow.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter to get back in the swing of things. Sorry about the delay everyone.


	8. Chapter 8

Military and SHIELD working together was, at least, always interesting in Phil's opinion. The various wings of the military had no consistent opinion in SHIELD, though they seemed to like them better than most badge carrying feebs. That said, SHIELD Dogs and Military Dogs? Peanut butter and jelly.

 

The price tag ensured that the US military, in spite of having a truly extravagant budget, didn't have many dogs, even in various special forces divisions. Also a constant problem is they tended to want to give the serum too late, to mid or late twenties operators who had joined just out of high school.

 

So they're rare jewels and Phil tends to be fond of them. Enough that he's almost smiling as the quinjet sets down on base, even if they were there because the local government had called them about an insurgent cell with energy weapons.

 

"You are far too pleased about coming to this sandbox." Clint grumbled, his black and purple traded up for desert camo.

 

"I have my reasons." He opened the ramp and walked out, Clint and the rest of the strike team following. Marines were already waiting and Phil saluted as he came to a stop. "Senior Field Agent Coulson, SHIELD, and strike team."

 

"Dogs?" The marine asked, returning the salute.

 

"I am, and half the team." They're already moving, and he's not surprised when the marine immediately knocks on his synergy. He'd already seen the patch on his uniform.

 

There was a startling difference between their synergies, which always brought a few things about SHIELD's dog serum into relief. They never noticed when it was just them but their synergy stank of glass and metal and labs. They were like a clean room project, somehow. Military dog synergy felt strange and organic, mud and clay and tribal. It's not displeasing though and Phil swaps greetings and basic information, making sure they say enough out loud that the not-enhanced strike team members can follow the conversation.

 

Really getting to work with military dogs is the most interesting part of the op. They're running down insurgents, kicking in some doors and hopefully capturing a few individuals they have names and files for, who are either responsible for the potential energy weapons in play or will be able to say who is responsible.

 

Of course it wasn't that long ago that the debacle in Mexico happened so he doesn't tune out any of the discussions happening. If something happens here it will be a lot harder to recover from.

 

"We're also starting to see Stark weapons in enemy hands." The marine dog, Sylvesterson, told him, satellite photography spread out on a table between them. He shuffled one of the photos over, grainy imagery still managing to show a Stark logo.

 

He blinked once. "That's actually interesting. Anything from command on it?"

 

"No, nothing yet."

 

"I know enough about Stark's business practices to know he wouldn't personally sell to other governments. He doesn't even like selling his toys to Israel." He tapped the photo. "So it's stolen or counterfeit. Either way, I'd like the intel you have on that, we'll investigate."

 

"Between us, we'd appreciate that. Stark weapons hit hard. The bad guys you're going after aren't involved in that as far as our surveillance can tell, they have their own freaky shit."

 

"Freaky." Phil repeated.

 

Sylvesterson stepped away, and came back with two others, hauling what was probably a piece of Humvee armor, but had a hole melted through it. A roughly round hole, perhaps six inches in diameter. "Freaky."

 

"Shit." Phil stepped over and crouched so they didn't have to hold it up for him. "And we're sure this was a gun?"

 

"It wasn't an explosive or fire. It was a ranged weapon. We didn't see what fired it. It worked slow enough the soldiers in this vehicle were able to bail before it punched through. It did a number to the Humvee interior before it stopped."

 

Double shit. "Might be a mutant, then." He stood.

 

"We don't see many here. The ones we do see want out. This isn't a very friendly place for different people."

 

"The world isn't very friendly but yeah, it might be the difference between ignored, and murdered." Phil considered the photos then looked up. "Well, we're going to be operating at your discretion. Your people have control of when we roll."

 

"Just waiting for our eyes in the sky to let us know they're home. I'm looking forward to it actually; I've heard a lot about SHIELD's strike teams but never witnessed it myself."

 

"I hope we impress."

 

* * *

 

 

"I've got maybe two dozen adult sized bodies downrange." Clint was barely murmuring but the throat mic caught it fine. "Body posture and size indicates most if not all are male."

 

"Copy." Phil murmured back. Night ops in the sandbox. He should not feel nostalgia in these situations but he does. They're still in a Humvee convoy, parked and quiet, Clint set up on a rocky hill using his sniper scopes to check in on the enemy.

 

"Lookouts posted but most are inside. Lights are on. Looks like a genuine little factory they have set up, sir. Can't see what's being made but I doubt it's teddy bears full of love and hope."

 

"Your sniper is a wiseass." Observed Sylvesterson.

 

Phil gave him a look. "You don't say. Give us a direction of approach, Barton."

 

"Just a sec." Ninety seconds later, Barton walked up to the Humvee, all but yelling his identity via synergy, sniper rifle slung. "From the east. If we kill our lights and use night vision we can nearly drive up on top of them, easily get within half a mile. They have machinery running, should cover our engines."

 

"If we're lucky. Saddle up."

 

“They’re isolated enough we should just be able to drive up on top of them.” Sylvesterson remarked to Phil as the convoy started rolling again. “If this was in the middle of a town we might use more discretion but they’re on the edge of a village.”

 

“By the same token if they’re paying villagers for work in that place this might get messy.” He saw the look. “Yes, I know, but it’s possible. Not every war or drug lord enslaves everyone in sight. Usually it’s easier just to pay people.”

 

“Either way they’ll be pissed if that’s the case. We’re still kicking the door in.”

 

He had to concede that point.

 

Clint muttered over the throat mic that he was switching to bow, which made the military guys look at him, then he rolled one of the Humvee windows down and leaned out of it as they approached. “I’ve got shots for two of the lookouts.”

 

Phil barely glanced at Sylvesterson for confirmation. “Take them.”

 

Amazing shots really. Clint was firing out of a moving vehicle on a bumpy dirt road, with a bow, at night. Phil didn’t have to ask to know the shots found their targets because Clint never missed, but the result wasn’t ideal because by movement at the factory, the lookouts going down was noticed and alarm was going up. So the Humvees floored it and turned their headlights on as they bore down on the place.

 

In Phil’s experience there’s really no such thing as an organized firefight. Synergy flared, fast and from so many dogs Phil didn’t really have time to actually think about anything, just act and bark out orders. The Humvee armor was shrugging off the panic fire from an assortment of guns, then there was a bright blare of light that blinded night vision and he knew they’d found what they were looking for.

 

The enemy outside fell back and they moved forward, the mixed group managing to coordinate as they shoved into what was basically a small warehouse with an equally small factory inside. Most of the people working the machines were already on the ground with their hands up, the various presses stopped or running untended, a few of the people pointing deeper in the factory.

 

“Five armed enemy down plus the two lookouts.” One of the soldiers reported. “Lotta parts being made but no finished product.”

 

Phil had already gotten the attention of his strike team and was about to move out when someone shouted to get down. He did without question, diving as a flash of light and heat passed over them with a hiss-crackle. Sylvesterson shouted for them to get the civilians moving and get them out of harm’s way, which most of them were already doing by way of running for the hills.

 

He ended up on the ground, looking up at a press that had a sizzling hole punched through it, and reflecting that meant a) the weapons are more powerful than previously suggested (or had a sharp falloff over distance) and b) that would make very short work of a human. “Does anyone have eyes on the shooter?”

 

“No sir!”

 

Not surprising in this rat’s maze of crates and equipment, none of which would be good cover. He rolled to the side and up into a crouch, the others doing the same, all cringing away from the phantom heat as another shot was fired. This time he was able to see the gauge of it, a rolling volleyball of bright heat, and get a trajectory back so he rose up and dug his toes in, slinging the rifle in exchange for a dead sprint, arms pumping. He heard Clint and a few of the soldiers loudly swearing at him and knew from synergy a few of the strike team were following, vaulting over crates to fall in as Clint jumped and climbed, ending up standing on top of a press with the bow brought around and up.

 

One more shot got off but he saw it coming and everyone got out of the way before he lunged, diving past the weapon and knocking it aside, grabbing the shooter who was apparently not expecting to be bum rushed. He took the young man (a boy really) down and held him there, the other strike team members covering him then moving deeper into the factory when he indicated for them to.

 

He was still kneeling holding the teen’s hands behind his back, calling for cuffs when the kid’s hands sparked, and he had to reevaluate. “Can someone give me a zip tie?”

 

“I got you.” Clint dropped down from the stack of crates and gave him one, watching Phil zip tie the kid’s hands and step back away from the sparks in favor of picking up the weapon. “Mutant?”

 

“Maybe. Sylvesterson! Your guys find anything?”

 

“A whole lot of those. Like, we have half a dozen crates full.” He walked over to join them. “Why?”

 

“That leaves me with more questions than answers. I’m not so sure this thing has a power source besides squirt here.” He tossed the gun to him and watched him shoulder it.

 

“Damn things handle like a blunderbuss.”

 

“Pretty sure it’s an amplification system for the energy blast and the kid’s providing the energy. You see batteries?”

 

“No. But why mass produce guns when only one guy can use them?” He saw Phil’s expression as he lowered the weapon. “Shit.”

 

“Yeah. Shit.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Human experimentation?”

 

“Or something sir. If a drug cartel can try to make a supersoldier serum in what was probably not a clean lab, then we shouldn’t be shocked to see this sort of thing out in the sticks.” Phil replied, looking at the screen and camera. “The kid we have in custody’s a wreck, I’m bringing him with me for assessment and a probably transfer to Xavier’s.”

 

“He is the closest we have to an expert in these matters.” Nick rubbed his face. “The weapons?”

 

“We emptied the factory. All the finished models. We torched all the associated parts but this means the tech’s out there. We don’t have a designer. We don’t know who made these. We have two file cabinets of paperwork, maybe our translators will know.”

 

“Load two crates of the weapons, the paperwork and the kid for return. Have the rest of the weapons destroyed. Even if they’re of no use to anyone there’s no sense in letting them get back into anyone’s hands for repurposing.”

 

“There’s something else. The soldiers here are seeing Stark weaponry in the wild. We might want to start seriously investigating that.”

 

“Agreed, see if you can get a copy of that intel so we can get the appropriate group working that.”

 

“Of course sir. Over and out.”


	9. Chapter 9

Phil hated Obadiah Stane on sight.

  
Which was ... interesting. Dogs were really engineered to keep calm. Not to say high emotions didn't happen but things like wanting to punch someone on sight? Not common. Interesting though, and he made note of it. Something to discuss with other dogs later because it wasn't a reaction he'd had often in his life.

  
A few quiet months of investigation had led to a general belief that someone in Stark's company might be doing dirty, but that it likely wasn't Stark, as he was interested in inventing, AIs/robots, booze, fucking, and cars. Certainly he could be capable of criminal enterprise but it was a good thing he had the attention span of a toddler for everything but the aforementioned list because Stark as a criminal was NOT something anyone wanted to contemplate. That'd be Moriarty-level horribleness.

  
But, for funsies, they did have a civilian asset go flirt with him. Her report, in three words, was "genius drunken manslut", and to expand, "brutally honest because he does not give a fuck." Fair enough, Stark was probably clean. Or at least, not a criminal worthy of their attention. If he smoked pot while building robots and weapons, good for him.

  
So, they finally decided that sending someone to talk to Stane was as good an idea as any, just to see if any hornets stirred from the stick-poking. And Phil got volunteered, because in a suit and tie he could be every inch the unassuming, forgettable feeb. While Natasha's appearance was engineered to make people remember only certain things, Phil's was engineered to make people remember next to nothing. He wasn't a spy by trade but there was a certain pride he took in the fact that after 24 hours, most people were reduced to describing him as white guy with dark hair in a suit.

  
Not to say Phil was bothered by the assignment. He'd been the senior agent given initial intel by the military after all and he'd been tangentially involved in all steps since. Going to rattle a civilian CEO? Sounded fun as hell. So to California he went.

  
Obadiah Stane was tallish, bearded, bald. He made Phil think of clichéd biker dudes, except for everything else. He had an expensive cigar (and offered Phil one), an expensive wardrobe, and a friendly-papa-bear presentation that made the hair on the back of Phil's neck stand on end. He shook Phil's hand and listened attentively to every measured calculated word Phil said, looked at the surveillance photos with alarm.

  
"And your guys are certain these aren't counterfeit?" Stane wove the cigar at the photos on his desk.

  
"Certain enough that I'm here talking to you about it. While historically Stark weapons have gotten into enemy hands previously, it's not common. This is enough and consistently enough it suggests hijacked shipments. The military says none of their gear is missing. You understand our... particular concern in this matter."

  
Stane stared, clearly offended. "We're not selling to both sides if that's the implication."

  
"I imply nothing besides a lack of intel to close that knowledge gap."

  
Stane sat back and grunted. "Well. We're always glad to help SHIELD. Howard was both proud and often-irked working with your agency. What do you need?"

  
"Access to production and shipping manifests for the last year or so would suffice for now."

  
He considered, then nodded. "I'll have my people collect what you need."

 

Phil stood and offered his hand. "Anything further we find out, we'll let you know."

  
"I'd appreciate it. These weapons shouldn't be in the hands of those people." Stane shook, saluting with the cigar. "Give my people the rest of the day to get those files together."

  
"That's acceptable, thank you for your time."

 

* * *

 

 Two weeks later, Tony Stark disappeared while overseas doing a weapon demonstration.

 

* * *

 

 

Phil had suspicions immediately, but no evidence. They were combing through the data that Stane had coughed up and requested more and they still had an intel gap. The manifests given to them did not account for the weapons being seen in the hands of various enemy forces in the middle east, and satellite footage of the weapons in action suggested that if they were not actually Stark weaponry then whoever was making the counterfeits was a savant.

 

But really the weapons problem was nicely overtaken by the fact that Tony Stark was missing. Taken in the field, from a Humvee convoy. Most of the soldiers had died, the ones that had survived were critically injured. The ones that had arrived far too late, including Rhodes, had all given dutiful reports. Rhodes himself seemed traumatized.

 

Phil went through all the reports and wasn’t surprised by that. Two days, now, Stark was gone. Body gone, blood left behind. Injured, and inside sources including Rhodes said that Stark wasn’t so stupid as to not wear body armor (of his own design, naturally). Which meant the injury was through the armor or somewhere not armored.

 

Dammit he’s chasing his tail on this.

 

He told the surveillance teams to keep satellites over the area and to keep looking. They said they were already authorized to do that but with the rats’ nest of caves and the fact that enemy vs innocent was hard to tell sometimes, finding Stark via satellite would be a goddamn miracle. He accepted that, tucked the file of reports under his arm and left out from that work station, broadcasting out as he moved, a loud soundless call for attention and the sight/scent/impression that was Rumlow. His synergy call was felt through the Triskelion, the ping bouncing off other dogs and passing on, then back, carrying with it the I’m-here response from Rumlow with a dot on a map.

 

In the Triskelion, but one of the other towers.

 

He hates this goddamn building. Yes, he and a bunch of other dogs live here but for fuck’s sake, there’s always this moment when someone’s in one of the other towers and you have to go down multiple floors to cross over. Who designed this shit?

 

So he transitioned down a few floors from the satellite surveillance experts, walked most of the way in a circle and took another elevator up, stepping out on one of the top floors and saluting who he passed automatically. They saluted back, he’s still not used to that. He still had the map in his head and followed it down the hallway, pausing in a doorway when he saw Peirce standing in a conference room, talking to Rumlow, whose synergy was practically vibrating the air around him with effort not to broadcast whatever he was thinking about the situation. “Sir, sorry for interrupting.”

 

“No, it’s fine. Senior Field Agent Coulson, correct?” Peirce’s hint of a smile was cool and didn’t reach his eyes.

 

“That’s correct sir. I need Rumlow.” He left it at that.

 

Peirce just made a you’re-dismissed gesture and Rumlow turned on heel, walking out of the room. Phil was already moving and they walked side by side to the elevator, Phil shouldering him once.

 

“What’s this about?” He asked as the elevator opened.

 

“Tony Stark was kidnapped during a weapons demonstration in Afghanistan.”

 

Brock blinked at him. “I heard. Command is shitting themselves. A powerful asset like Stark disappearing doesn’t exactly so much make waves as nuke the fucking sea.”

 

“Right. I need your help.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“A few things. One, we need to find Stark. With no body we have to assume capture.” When Brock considered then nodded once he continued. “Two, I think Stane’s involved. I want you to help me nail him to the wall.”

 

Brock’s eyebrows slowly lifted. “Wow. I’ve only seen you this pissed when puppies are MIA. This should be fun. Okay, let’s do it, take me to whatever war room you’ve got and let’s figure this shit out.”

* * *

 

 Phil hadn’t really had a war room yet but he’s able to get one put together with minimal effort on his part. Benefit of being a Senior Field Agent he supposed. Fury authorized his staff requests immediately as well as permission to use one of the not-in-use war rooms for it. Equipment shifted around a bit and a few of the satellite surveillance people came down to join them, as well as a few linguists and so on. Not a large group but everyone that was involved was an expert in what they did.

 

The first task was figuring out who had taken Tony Stark and that took about two days to sort out. The second, and nearly simultaneous task, was figuring out if the Stark weapons being seen were actually Stark. It was Rumlow and his strike team that figured that out, because they went shopping.

 

“It’s Ten Rings.” Rumlow walked in, he and Jack carrying a crate labeled Stark and dropping it on Phil’s conference table in the war room. “And they are Stark weapons, not knock offs.”

 

“Do I want to know how you got absolute confirmation on that. I assume while you procured that.” Phil replied, looking at the crate then Brock.

 

“Fury let me and the boys go shopping. The Ten Rings have a source of real Stark weapons but occasionally sell them. We found that marketplace and made a purchase, schmoozed a bit.” Brock grinned, all teeth. “We didn’t even have to hurt anybody.”

 

“Besides Fury’s budget I imagine.”

 

“Oh come on, you know this kind of honest persuasion is a lot cheaper than a combat operation.”

 

“Touché.” He considered. “I went on an operation in the sandbox a while ago chasing energy weapons, did you read that report?”

 

“Yes sir. Coffee?”

 

“Help yourself, all of you.”

 

The Strike team emptied the pot and started another, sitting around the table with the mismatched collection of mugs that any war room gathered like magic, looking around at the pin boards and holograph displays that littered the room. “You’ve been busy sir.”

 

“I’m up Stark’s company’s ass with a microscope. His assistant Potts has been most helpful. That mission I went on regarding potential energy weapons connected me to intel from the military that they were seeing Stark weapons in the field in the hands of the enemy. When I asked Stane about it he said ‘those people’ shouldn’t have them. Know who they weren’t? They weren’t Ten Rings.”

 

“They also weren’t American.” Jack pointed out.

 

“True. And if we had some kind of manifest that suggested the weapons were stolen, I’d be inclined to believe that they were in enemy hands erroneously. We’ve gone back three years and I still don’t know where this,” He gestured at the crate, “Came from. Everything they’ve sold is supposedly accounted for. So apparently you purchased this from a unicorn’s ass, Rumlow.”

 

Brock snorted into his coffee mug. “I wish sir, would probably have smelled more pleasant.”

 

“Someone in Stark’s company is doing dirty.” Jack concluded.

 

“Right. I’d love it if we could figure that out but getting Stark’s drunken savant ass back is really a priority. He’s a civilian but he’s something of an important one.”

 

“He’s a dick.” Brock provided.

 

“So was Howard. So. Ten Rings.” Phil typed with one hand and the name ‘Ten Rings’ came up at the top of the holograph display. “Just one of a dozen groups of swinging dicks backed by religion and drug money and arms running but they’ve been pretty noisy lately and been pushing out the other such groups in their area. Pretty insular is my understanding but the fact that you were able to buy weaponry off of them suggests they do business which means they talk. How did you manage that anyway?”

 

“I am just a French man wanting to make a little noise, you know?” Jack replied in a flawless French accent.

 

“I’m sure some government agency in France is panicking right now thinking they have a terrorist coming to wreck their shit.” He leaned back in his seat and caught the eye of one of his people, who got the idea and started writing a memo regarding that. “Okay. So, no one’s going to actually care if we go smash these assholes up.”

 

“NATO might, Ten Rings has a habit of using human shields.” Brock replied, making a face. “Not to mention they’ll rabbit further down their holes.”

 

“And they’re the kind of assholes that will do business with outsiders without batting an eye but are insular enough that we likely could never get someone inside to find out where prisoners are kept. And even if we could…” Jack said.

 

“The tunnels mean if we go in blind no one will find our bodies.” Phil finished. “We’ve done more with less. Someone’s talked. Let’s find out where these guys are holding prisoners and see if we can make enough noise to get them to show their hand.”

 

“And Stark Industries?”

 

“I’m going to tell Potts that we have reason to believe that Stark’s alive and we’re trying to follow that intel. She’ll likely pass that on to Stane. I’ve already got wiretap orders in place, let’s see who phones overseas when that happens.”

 

* * *

 

 It’s slow work, complicated by the fact that they’re all having to do other things as well. Particularly Phil who has realized that being a Senior Field Agent comes with a lot of administrative duties. That said, Fury seemed to recognize that this is pretty goddamn important and it’s the primary thing he’s working on during his waking hours, going so far as to read and listen to intel updates while he’s in the gym.

 

They’re able to track Ten Rings by satellite and quickly realize these assholes more or less have highways, often traveled roads and which of those roads see more personnel. It lets them narrow down the range of their search, especially when they get photos and names of Ten Rings command. Once that’s done they’re able to figure out, pretty quickly, that prisoners are being kept maybe three places.

 

All underground.

 

At one point, the satellite surveillance people think they catch a frame of Tony Stark, outside. SHIELD satellites are good, but with the glare from the sun and the fact that the individual is a mess, they’re not sure if it’s him or just another bearded white guy, of which there seem to be at least a few in the hands of the Ten Rings.

 

As a previous buyer, Jack and his ‘bodyguard’ Brock go over and schmooze at the markets that Ten Rings show up at. They bring booze and stupid expensive food to pave the way and buy a few things and talk a lot, and come back with what everyone kind of figured but was nice to have confirmation of anyway.

 

Ten Rings wanted Jericho missiles.

 

Phil put out to Potts that he wants any and all records of Jericho production and sales since the start of production, and for the first time gets resistance. Not from Potts but from Stane, who argues that he needs permission from the Department of Defense before he lets that go since only American military has those, in spite of satellite footage suggesting otherwise.

 

Phil calls bullshit.

 

But before he can really push the DoD to push Stane, Tony Stark decides he’s tired of being a prisoner, and one of the Ten Rings bases goes up in a glorious series of explosions.

 

They know a handful of minutes before the American military does and that makes all the difference. Phil’s actually dead asleep when the alarm goes out and he’s up and moving, putting out requests to command for personnel and transportation as he gets into a tach suit. He’s apparently already cleared because authorization is easy and immediate.

 

So a quinjet is flying beside the military’s helicopters as they move to investigate the chaos. Rhodes is one of the choppers and ends up talking to Phil as they’re in the air. Neither of them have any proof that Stark’s involved in this, in fact the military is going with accidental weapon discharge leading to explosions, and Rhodes is eager for the Intel Phil has because SHIELD had better satellites. SHIELD knows there was a fight, beyond that, it’s hard to say. They have no way of knowing Stark was involved.

 

They find dead bodies and wreckage at the mouth of a cave and, a bit out from it, a landing site with rubble and a single set of footprints.

 

Soon enough the quinjet is hovering, watching Rhodes run out to meet an injured but somehow alive Tony Stark, and Phil nods just once.

 

“Guess he beat us to it.” Clint observed.

 

“That’s Stark’s roommate from MIT. Let him have this.”

 

“Mmn. I guess we’ll just have to have those warm fuzzies vicariously.”

 

“I don’t know; I think this is pretty good anyway. We got the figurehead back, let’s figure out who’s selling his weapons.”


	10. Chapter 10

It says something about Phil that he’s really used to continuing a debrief without missing a beat or letting his voice waver too much as Nick moves him to sit on the edge of his desk and started getting him out of his tac gear.

 

“You do realize I’ll need to be in California about the same time as Tony Stark. I need to talk to him and find out the details of his escape.” He shifted and wrapped a leg around Nick to tug him in.

 

“Are you saying I need to make this a quickie, because I’ve barely seen you the last few weeks.” When Phil lifted an eyebrow at him, Nick sighed. “Fine. Now let me finish stripping you.”

 

“Sir, yes sir.”

 

* * *

 

For a man who had presumably walked through hell, stared the devil in the eye and walked back out, Tony Stark looked okay.  Physically, anyway. He had an arm in a sling and there was clearly something odd going on with his chest which Phil added to the long list of things he wanted to be debriefed on. Stark also had a thousand-yard stare, and the twitchy paranoid glances of someone waiting for guns to bristle in his direction.

 

PTSD was to be expected. Hardened soldiers would have it going through what Stark presumably did, and Stark had been an insulated civilian. The fact that he was as well put together as he was, walking into the press conference, was impressive.

 

His PA was nice enough when Phil spoke to her, though he’s not surprised at the brush off. He’s clearly going to have to insist upon a debrief, or be ignored. But that’s not the only reason why he’s there.

 

Because Obadiah Stane’s reactions are pretty damn interesting, actually.

 

Then Stark announced that he’s ceasing all weapons production and all holy hell broke loose.

 

* * *

 

Phil suspected he’s going to spend a lot of time flying between Malibu and DC over the next few months. He spent all his time on the flight talking to SHIELD command because while they aren’t exactly being left in a lurch, SHIELD are customers of Stark’s and they’ll have to find a new supplier. Otherwise, there’s not a lot he can do but keep bothering Stark for a debrief. He’ll give him a bit to finish coming unglued then try again. That’s still on his mind when he walked into the Triskelion, and is immediately pinged on synergy to come to a briefing room. So he did, rehearsing an abstract on Stark as he walked.

 

"China has a wild dog problem."

 

Phil stopped in the doorway of the briefing room, staring at those already there. "Wow. I can't think of anything I'd rather not be hearing."

 

Clint scoffed. "Sex found to be the cause of all cancers."

 

"Steve Rogers was actually a HYDRA plant." Jasper suggested.

 

"I accidently deleted your Harvest Moon save file." John deadpanned.

 

"Kingsmen exposed as crime ring masquerading as spy organization." Brock suggested.

 

"That one I'd believe." Natasha reflected.

 

"I thought we were gathered here to talk about Stark losing his mind." Phil sat heavily at the table.

 

"We were, then China called while you were RTB." Another dog, Anderson, explained.

 

"China called." Phil repeated. "I would not have bet on that happening. Fine shit's better between our countries but they don't have us on speed dial for military or agency support normally because we're cozy with Japan and Taiwan."

 

"Could be worse. North Korea could have called."

 

"Rogers being HYDRA is more likely than North Korea calling us dirty yanks to ask for assistance. We're their supervillain." Clint shook his head.

 

"Come on, who didn't grow up wanting to be part of SPECTER?" Brock asked. "I mean you have to admire their ambition."

 

"I think most of us wanted to be James Bond, weirdo."

 

"China. Dogs. Are they wild dogs or coyotes?" Phil asked, deciding it was time to steer the wandering train back to the tracks.

 

"They say wild dogs. Is coyote the accepted slang for non-government sanctioned dog now?" Anderson wanted to know.

 

"After what happened to the group I was with in Mexico, yes." Clint replied.

 

"... Fair enough.”

 

“Who here actually speaks Mandarin?” Phil wanted to know, and isn’t surprised when Natasha puts her hand up, then Brock wiggles a hand in midair. “Alright, I’m conversational but don’t know the whole character alphabet. Which begs the question of why are you all here and why am I the one being fingered for this when we have to have senior agents who are Mandarin-fluent, which would be the idea for such a task.”

 

They looked at each other and shrugged at him.

 

“Because you’re good at handling altered humans.” Peirce said, walking into the room behind him. Phil made himself not startle. “It’s been something of the key point in your resume actually. Mutants or otherwise. They tend to give you a glowing review. We need to treat this situation with kid gloves.” He glanced at those present. “This isn’t exactly a formal briefing.”

 

“Initial abstract and discussion of, sir.” Phil didn’t bat an eye.

 

“Ah. Rumlow’s team is used to working with you, most of them can speak some Mandarin. Romanov is fluent, Russia and China have had connections for decades, she’ll be useful.” Peirce gave Barton a hard stare. Barton stared back. Peirce evidently decided his presence wasn’t worth remarking on. “Look at the information we have and let command know how you wish to proceed.”

 

“Understood sir.” He watched Peirce walk back out, then moved to shut the door. “Since when does he get involved?”

 

“China. It’s what you might call a politically sensitive situation.” Brock replied.

 

“Fantastic.”

 

“You’re the one who’s going to end up part of command.”

 

“Oh please don’t remind me. Someone here has the actual briefing files right? Let’s tear apart whatever data we have.”

 

* * *

 

Usually the good days are when all of the ordinance, nonlethal or lethal, ends up in the enemy and they walk away uninjured or barely injured.

 

And sometimes, Phil thought, looking down at mangled bodies covered in brutal surgery marks before quietly excusing himself to vomit, those weren’t the good days at all.

 

* * *

 

No one on the mission to China was happy. China’s human rights had always been fairly questionable (though really they were just more public about it, really) and their response to the bodies being brought back was a collective shrug and a mild thank-you. Phil was polite and got all of their people the hell out as fast as possible. Though apparently not so fast that the plane wasn’t full of clothing and food.

 

“How.” He asked, flatly.

 

Clint shrugged, passing out piles of dumplings of various types, savory pancakes and legs of lamb. “You blinked.”

 

“You don’t speak a bit of Mandarin, how did you…”

 

“My food finding abilities are top notch.” Jack said.

 

“I haggled.” Natasha was taking apart a dumpling.

 

“You want food or not?” Clint wanted to know.

 

He sighed, and accepted a loaded plate. It was something of a comfort as he wrote his report. No one interrupted him but Natasha and Clint wedged onto the couch on either side of him, sandwiching him silently and reminding him to eat with gentle prods as he worked, the synergy on the plane quiet and sad, but companionable, all the same.

 

* * *

 

“That one bothered you.”

 

“Yes.” Phil didn’t deny it, leaning on the windowsill and staring out the window.

 

“You’re not usually the squeamish type.”

 

“No, I’m not. Thank you for giving me this talk instead of Peirce.”

 

Nick snorted. “He had nothing intelligent to say, he’s too busy being pleased this thing went off without a hitch.” He moved to lean next to Phil. “Talk to me, Coulson.”

 

“It wasn’t because it was something I hadn’t seen. I’ve seen a lot worse. I think it’s more that I ran into a piece of our own history.” Phil hedged after a moment then looked at Nick’s computer. “Voice command, Dog soldiers, first gen, photos. End voice command.”

 

It takes a moment for the computer to register the request then it does, accepting his voice as a security stamp and going into SHIELD’s deep files, pulling up photos of the first gen of dog soldiers.

 

“What I found in China wasn’t too dissimilar. Just… the failed ones. They were a threat but not really against us, exactly. Against anything. Fighting the entire world because the entire world was a perceived threat to them, maybe.”

 

“So China’s running the dog generations through rapid fire to catch up. Sounds about right, that’s how they’ve handled a lot of things.” Fury sighed. “It’s to be expected.”

 

“You think Captain America would have liked this shit?”

 

“No. But he would have understood it. No different than nuclear bomb escalation.”

 

Phil looked away and stared out the window again, frowning.

 

“What?”

 

“Just wondering what the next bomb is, sir. The next point of escalation.”

 

“Oddly pessimistic for you. You don’t figure we’ll deescalate?”

 

“No. I don’t think humans do. We just normalize and move on. Which means something else is coming.”

 

“Right. Like the suit, by the way. Chinese?”

 

“Yeah. Romanov got it for me, fits like a glove right off the rack.”

 

“I want her to do all your shopping from now on.”

 

Phil half smiled.


	11. Chapter 11

Getting into the Gala was easy. Phil’s found a SHIELD badge lets him get in almost everywhere, especially if he calls ahead. In this case, he just walks up in a black suit and white shirt, shows the badge to the guards and walks by. They don’t even try to follow him. He figures he’s about to get pushed off again, but this is as much as putting eyes on Tony Stark (who’s up to some interesting things in his lab, maybe, given the projects Stane is suddenly pushing) as it is trying to get a debrief.

 

Tony Stark was ordering a drink and tipping with a hundred-dollar bill when he walked up, so he leaned on the bar, waited to be acknowledged, and introduced himself. Tony had one elbow on the bar still, glass in his other hand, and gave him a long appraising look before finally speaking. “Well. You’ve had a long service life haven’t you.”

 

Phil did an honest-to-god double take. Really, he couldn’t help it, because he abruptly felt naked.

 

“I mean, come on. Not very often you guys last long enough you actually start looking your age. And you haven’t been retired to training or briefing or whatever they do with you? I guess I’m impressed. Must be serious if they sent you.” He took a long swig of his drink. “Oh. Yeah, don’t worry, you totally pass.”

 

“How.” Phil said flatly.

 

“Oh, please, my dad worked on the Dog project basically my entire life. I grew up hearing all about it and met basically every generation of Dog because they’d come with whatever Military or SHIELD honcho was visiting him. I know what to look for.” He looked out over the party for a moment then looked back. “Call my office, they’ll set something up. Ask for Potts, she knows what officials to actually let in.”

 

“Thank you.” _For pulling the rug out from under me._

 

“But in exchange, I want you to think about a little conundrum for me.”

 

“I’m not an engineer, Mr. Stark. I’m a soldier. I’m not sure we solve the same conundrums.”

 

“Well, in this case, the conundrum’s about you.”

 

“I’m never going to entirely find my footing with you am I?”

 

Stark grinned at him, all teeth and zero humor with a thousand-yard stare. “What if I told you you’re programmed to not question the parameters of your own existence?”

 

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to anything.”

 

“No. Stop. You answered me immediately. There’s the programming I just mentioned.” Tony watched his face. “Now you get it. So there’s my conundrum for you, Agent Coulson.”

 

“You want me to think about something you say I can’t think about while I try to schedule a meeting with you to talk about the events surrounding your self-rescue in Afghanistan.” Phil repeated back because, honestly, this was rapidly going a very strange place.

 

“Yes. Exactly. Call my assistant tomorrow, I see something I need to go look into.”

 

He watched Stark walk away. “…Thank you for your time.”

 

* * *

 

Once back on base, Phil changed and went to the base’s gym.

 

It was habit. He’d written and submitted his report while on the airplane then stared out the window and considered what Stark had told him, in not so many words. It had a lot of troubling implications. He’d always figured here was a lot Command didn’t say, for security clearance reasons if nothing else, but when Dogs got dominion back over their own bodies, a few other rules had been put down, and one of those was that Dogs were supposed to be fully informed of serum effects before the course was started.

 

So Stark was suggesting those effects were not fully disclosed and it was to continue to leverage the Dogs in general. Honestly as a concept it’s entirely believable, as much as Phil hates to say it. Command doesn’t want them to have anything really resembling freedom. They’d conceded that by taking the deal and they’d had to fight for every millimeter of control back over the last few decades back. That control being suborned by a … what even would this be called?

 

So on the flight back Phil stared out the window and tried to call Stark’s bluff, and try to consider the parameters of his own existence. First of all he found it difficult to define. In base terms he’s a soldier, that’s easier. He’s a soldier of SHIELD, he’s a low-level member of command, he’s a Dog. That’s easy.

 

Defining himself as anything else is impossible.

 

Not that he’d ever considered anything else. Their existence is fairly limited, after all, and everything he’d been so far fit what was probably preprogrammed parameters. Alright, so it’s think outside the box time, he supposed, but with future tense? Or is he being too literal here?

 

He gave up, for the moment, and slept. It was early morning when he reentered the Triskelion and dropped his bag off at his quarters, changing to exercise clothing and retreating to the gym, getting on a treadmill and running. At that point he could stop paying attention to his body and just run, and let his mind focus back on the issue.

 

‘You’re programmed not to question the parameters of your own existence.’

 

It’s really strange phrasing now that he’s thinking about it. It’s vague, at best. What is there to question? He’s left looping back to the self-definition soldier. That’s factual, and not really worth questioning. It’s what he’s been since he was a teenager. What else would he have been…?

 

He almost tripped over his own feet at the sudden spike of a headache, but put a hand on one of the treadmill rails and steadied himself, and kept moving. He was willing to write it off as potential dehydration and was already drinking water while running when he had a second thought and put the bottle down.

 

What else would he have been? And the pain spike seared him again, enough he stopped the treadmill and leaned over the controls, head bowed and breathing hard as he chased that line of thought.

 

He remembered his youth, of course. He remembered his childhood and being in high school and being undecided and directionless before deciding on the military and ending up with SHIELD. He’d had some other ideas, but… He couldn’t remember any of them. After several moments of futility and an increasingly severe headache, a chill knot grew in his stomach.

 

Yes, he was a soldier. And the Dog programming wasn’t going to let him consider any other avenue.

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Phil looked up from the piece of paper. “Nothing of import, what’s up?”

 

“Nothing.” Clint sat down across from him and reached for the paper, setting a hand on it and flipping it around when Phil made no move to stop him. “Huh. I didn’t know you draw.”

 

“…I’m just doodling. I’ve had a headache all day, I don’t feel like making an actual effort on my downtime.” Phil knew how lame it sounded. “It’s not…”

 

“It’s Bucky Barnes. Right? Is this from memory?” Clint looked up, turning it back and sliding it back over.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Keep it up, boss.”

 

Headache or not, he had to smile at Clint. For not questioning it, and not suggesting he go to medical for the headache.

 

Phil suspected self-definition was going to be painful and ongoing, but maybe he can make small attempts. Little bits, here and there. Steal himself back.


	12. Chapter 12

“Much as I’m sure we all appreciate the pie, Coulson, usually these little late night excursions are to Ben’s Chili Bowl.” John said, peering around the tiny restaurant.

 

“This place isn’t bugged like Ben’s is.” Phil replied.

 

“He tells no lies. That place is so wired I’m stunned it’s not a fire hazard.” Jasper said. They were all crowded around a single table in the back, menus in hand and hot coffees being delivered. “So it’s one of those late night excursions. I assume this is all off record.”

 

“Extremely off record. Don’t talk about it at work, you know they have eyes and ears on us anywhere we go on base, Triskelion or otherwise.” Phil agreed.

 

“Beer brat pie.” Clint read off, sounding skeptical.

 

“Yes, try a slice, it’s worth it.”

 

“So I guess that makes us your inner circle?” Brock wanted to know, sitting backwards straddling a chair.

 

Phil gave him a look. “You, Jasper, John and I are all about the same generation. Clint’s my puppy. Natasha’s adopted. I like to think I can trust you all not to rat me out to psych.”

 

Natasha smirked behind her coffee.

 

“So what’s this about?”

 

“What did you all want to be before you became Dogs?” He wanted to know, and was rewarded by blank stares. “Yes. I know. It’s hard to think about. Work at it for me. I went through the same thing.”

 

“… Shit. Pie or not I do not want to get touchy feely tonight.” John complained.

 

“Then shut up, eat pie and just listen.” He retorted, looking up when the waitress came back. “Are we ready to order?” Once their flurry of orders went in, including a request for an entire barbeque pork pie, he continued. “So, Howard Stark worked on Dogs and Tony Stark may or may not know some shit. He knew I was a Dog on sight and might have slipped me some information on us. If he’s right, we’re under a lot more programming than we’re told.”

 

“You’re just now figuring this out?” Brock asked. “Come on, man, open your eyes walking through the Triskelion sometime. We’re constantly having PsiOps shit thrown at us to keep in line.”

 

“No shit. You notice the voice command shit uses a different voice for us than non-Dogs?” John asked. “That’s because Pierce recorded his voice for that shit. It’s fucking creepy and if you try to change it changes back.”

 

“I’m impressed.” Natasha admitted. “I’ve certainly noticed all of this but I’m not part of your system.”

 

“Getting me back to the question. What did you want to be when you grew up before the Dog serum?” Phil repeated. “Think about it. Can you actually remember?”

 

The table went quiet for a moment, and Clint started rubbing his temples after a few beats.

 

“Yeah. It hurts.” Phil said after a beat.

 

“Okay. Point made.” Jasper sighed and sat back, staring into his coffee.

 

“I don’t think it is. You drag our asses out at one AM to eat pie and give us headaches?” John sniveled.

 

“Or to undermine our agency loyalty.” Brock tipped his head at Phil.

 

“Hey. I’m not going that far. I’m saying we all need to look twice, that’s all.” Phil put his hands up.

 

“Is this why you started drawing?” Clint stared at him.

 

“… Yeah. It is actually. I was trying to prove to myself that I could do something I wasn’t designed to do.” He admitted. “I like my job. I think we do good things. But I think there’s room for us to have hobbies and do good work. This is what I wanted to talk to you all about.”

 

“Your people have a word for this actually.” Natasha said, looking up for her coffee. “I was given a lot of files when I came here. They wanted me to know all about Dogs. There’s a reason why older Dogs are put in different roles. It’s not experience, it’s necessity. It keeps you from thinking like this. It’s called Drift. It means either you’re actively rebelling or your serum is dying from age.”

 

Phil blinked, staring at her.

 

“Wait. The serum can die? The serum dies?” Clint asked. “What files did they give you?”

 

“Yes. The serum dies.” Jasper said quietly. “That’s why we’re pushed into non-combat roles. Getting repeatedly injured once the serum hits a certain age starts to burn it up. They lose control of us. That’s where the whole ‘putting Dogs down’ thing comes from, one of the reasons anyway. I don’t think they’ve actually done that since Gen Two but…”

 

“And they obviously know all this. By moving us to command, or strategy or training they insulate us and put us behind another layer of propaganda. Live and breathe the organization and train the next generation.” Brock shrugged. “Look, my take? Thanks man. I get what you’re trying to do and sharing this kind of shit’s important because we have to know how they’re controlling us.”

 

“Can’t bite the hand that feeds us if we can’t see the hand.” Jack snickered.

 

“For fuck’s sake, I am not talking about treason or something, do not even think that.” Phil flared. “I have no intention of turning on SHIELD, this is the only home I have and I made that choice willingly. What I want to know are the actual parameters because they were supposed to tell us. We were supposed to go into the Serum knowing the exact parameters of our Service. The fact that my loyalty is based entirely on lies is at best chilling.”

 

“Okay, now I get the point. You feel betrayed.” John realized.

 

“Yes. I do.”

 

Pie started arriving and the table was silent for a while, the whole pie just being put in the middle and multiple forks digging into it without ceremony.

 

“You know if I’m doing my math right, and I probably am because I’m pretty goddamn good at math, I hope you’re ready to buy the better part of a hundred bucks in pie.” Clint said, talking with his mouth full and getting poked with a fork as punishment.

 

“That’s fine. I accepted that when I suggested this.” Phil sighed. “Maybe I was wrong to drag you all into this because I accept this is literally all in my head. I just…”

 

“We’re not designed to be alone in anything, even this kind of turmoil, and you’re afraid of what would happen if you reported to medical or psych. Right?” Brock asked, and half smiled when Phil looked at him. “Yeah, you made the right choice. I got accused of Drift two years ago. By psych.”

 

“Shit I think I remember that. You were different for a while.”

 

“I still am. You’ve accepted the new normal. They did some shit to me. I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

Clint shuddered full body. “Is this a bad time for me to say that I wanted to be a math major for a while? I can say that pretty confidently because they fed me a lot of math in Ops training. They didn’t mind that, it’s useful.”

 

“Anyone else have anything disturbing to share about our mutual condition?” John asked, his slice of pie gone and digging into the pie in the middle of the table.

 

“Pig. You are a pig, Garrett.” Jasper said, staring. “How do you still pass physicals?”

 

“Magic. Can we go back to Stark knowing you on sight? How does that even work? You’re one of the most normal looking guys we have, Phil. Civilians always seem to think you’re a lawyer or something.”

 

“I don’t know how he recognized me and that’s been bothering me too.” He admitted, glancing around. Everyone shrugged.

 

“Well, he’s some kind of super genius right? Maybe it was less him knowing and more him hashing the odds. Guy in a suit, on official business.” Clint suggested.

 

“Maybe, but I’m pretty sure he just knew. It wouldn’t surprise me. I’m assigned to him right now, if I find out I’ll let you all know. I’m trusting you all over command, right now.”

 

“That’s how it should be. Command’s not getting shot at. We are.” Brock waved his fork in the air vaguely. “No offense, Phil.”

 

“Why the hell would I be offended?”

 

“Pierce sometimes forgets that Dogs are actually people so we overhear shit. You’re on a short list to officially make Command. I don’t mean small command either. I mean Director of Operations.”

 

That brought everyone to a halt to look at Brock. “You’re fucking kidding me.” Phil said skeptically. “Dogs have never reached the upper echelons like that.”

 

“It’d be unprecedented. It means a few things. One, that he doesn’t know you’re Drifting. Keep it that way.” Brock pointed at him with a bite of pie. “I don’t want you to go through that shit, seriously. Realistically I wanted to hate your ass but you actually give a fuck and I’d trust you as command over all of us. On the other hand, that means that they want someone they see as subverted in a position of command and that’s fucked.”

 

“You realize I’m taking this with a grain of salt or several. I haven’t heard a goddamn thing since I made senior field agent.”

 

“It’s your test run.”

 

“Thanks, Brock, I needed something else to worry about.”

 

He grinned. “You’re welcome. It’s got to be more pleasant than constantly trying to give yourself a Turing test.”

 

“Hah, yeah I guess. A toast to the Life Model Decoys, poor fuckers, the only staff in a worse position than us on any given day.” Phil lifted his coffee mug and they all did the same.

 

“For the record? Boxer. I wanted to be a boxer. Kind of works with being an Attack dog.”

 

“I don’t know what I wanted to be. I’ve… they took us as small children. There was never any thought for any other options.” Natasha said suddenly.

 

“I … I think I was considering culinary school.” Jasper said slowly. “It’s really hard to think about.”

 

“What is this? He drifts we all drift?” John wanted to know and got looked at. “I don’t remember. Honestly, I don’t remember. Probably nothing. Why do you think I joined the service in the first place? It’s a collecting place for the scrapyard of America. Teenagers who have nothing better to do or no money or want to see the world. I was all of those. Fuck it. And now I’m superhuman. Suck it, life.”

 

“I’ll toast that too.” Phil decided with half a smile, lifting his mug and getting a refill from the waitress in the process. “Oh. Thank you.” He smiled at her, she smiled back, and he started laughing because Clint repeatedly elbowed him until he did.

* * *

 

“Tony Stark has a flying suit of armor.”

 

Fury looked up and quirked a brow. “The other one has bells on.”

 

“And lace. I know. It’s not a plane. It’s not a drone. He’s been ordering a lot of high-end alloys and electronics supplies to his house, would you like the manifests?” Phil didn’t bat an eye.

 

“How did you get those?” Fury smirked and held out a hand; Phil passed them over and watched him start to flip through them.

 

“We’ve known for a while that Stark has limited ability to forge and machine metal in his home, which by the way draws a massive amount of power because of the integrated computer system. Well, that power draw spiked drastically, which meant he’s doing metalworking. So we pulled noted metal manifests for the area. Titanium, gold, you name it, Stark Industries trucks have been taking it directly to his house. He’s been working on something interesting. The ‘training exercise’ accident the Air Force had is almost definitely linked because we have satellite footage the Air Force does not and we are able to match it up to the footage we have of Stark’s escape. Not the same suit obviously. More streamlined. More colorful. Typical Stark style, actually, they aren’t subtle.”

 

“And he’s still blowing you off.”

 

“No. I actually have a meeting time. Tomorrow, actually. If I didn’t I would have turned up on his doorstep by now.”

 

“What about Stane?”

 

“Still slimey as fuck.”

 

Nick looked up with a half-smile. “Opinion noted. Do you still like the cold?”

 

“I don’t think I like that question, sir.”

 

“Who does. Deal with Stark because I have some exciting news for you when you get back.”

 

“Noted, I’d say I look forward to it, but I’ve seen what you consider exciting.”

“Are you doubting me?”

 

“Oh, no, I wait with bated breath. Sir. Is that all?”

 

“It is. Go pack for California.” He waited until Phil was turned and halfway to the door before continuing. “Coulson. Bring me back some pie next time.”

 

“… Of course, sir.” He kept his voice light, but the hair on the back of his neck stayed on end the entire walk back to his quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to so much Linkin Park, Evanescence and so on for this chapter you don't even know. Bring on the teen angst music.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, real life hit me like a train. I got a job offer that is going to result in me moving cross country. The house I'm in is going to be rented out behind me. Needless to say chaos and packing has ensued. I haven't moved yet, but I'm now in a quiet pause and can actually write. For what it's worth the pause did let me figure out a few things.

The Iron Man armor was heavy.  
  
Intelligently Phil knew that. It could turn bullets and survive heavy collisions, it had to be made of some super tough materials and most tough metals weren't light. That did not make trying to get Tony Stark and his ruined armor off a structurally unsound roof any goddamn easier.  
  
He's alive. As Phil and his agents try to move him, that's what he keeps telling himself. Stark is alive. That's the important part.  
  
And there was certain satisfaction to knowing he'd been right all along about Stane.  
  
JARVIS, the concerned protective butler AI that SHIELD had known about for quite some time, was the only reason they got the armor off. Phil ended up standing behind a barely conscious Tony Stark, helping steady him as giant robot arms considered how to go about getting the ruined armor off.  
  
"Coulson, right?" Stark asked fuzzily as JARVIS got the arms of the armor off and set aside.  
  
"Yes. You won."  
  
"Of course I did. Is Pepper ok?"  
  
"Miss Potts is fine." He braced as the chest piece of the armor was lifted free.  
  
Tony grunted. "You do this often?"  
  
"It's a new experience. I'm helping."  
  
"Could you move around to his front, Agent Coulson?"  
  
"Certainly." Phil moved and got an arm back around Tony as he wobbled. "Easy there. JARVIS said your vitals were alright, but now that you're awake, any injuries? Pain?"  
  
Tony stared at him, then waved weakly. "Everything hurts, I'm exhausted, longtime friend tried to kill me a few times over and apparently never liked me."  
  
"So, just another Tuesday."  
  
He burst into surprised laughter as the back armor, then leg armor was lifted away. "Is it Tuesday? I don't even know."  
  
"What serum did your father give you?"  
  
Tony's laughter cut off, head whipping around from looking at the ruined armor back to Phil. "You figured it out."  
  
"I conceded it was possible." Phil replied, draping one of Tony's arms over his shoulders. "JARVIS? Give me directions to his bedroom."  
  
"Certainly sir."  
  
"How did you even get me home?"  
  
"It was complicated."  
  
"Howard didn't give me a Dog serum. He vaccinated me against them." He saw Phil's expression and laughed softly. "Yeah. Had it given right alongside my other childhood vaccinations."  
  
"How long have you known?"  
  
"I wasn't a normal kid. They gave me the vaccination information to read in the doctor's office and Howard gave me the printout for the anti-serum vaccination. No, that sounds weird, like it counters a serum instead of blocking them."  
  
"He invented it I assume since I've never heard of it."  
  
"All of your command's had it, guarantee you." Tony grunted as he was all but carried up the stairs. "Howard was paranoid. Main reason was to make me immune to control of course, but the fringe benefit is, I can spot Dogs. Which is how you figured this out I assume."  
  
"Yes. So you pick up on synergy?"  
  
"Not sure what it is, honestly. It's like feeling sound instead of hearing it. Dogs are always surrounded by a silent hum." He sighed in relief as he was lowered onto his bed. "Fantastic, thank you. Let me sleep, JARVIS will call you when I'm presentable."  
  
"So never."  
  
Tony lifted a hand in a single digit salute. "And make sure it's you going forward if SHIELD sends a Dog, please."  
  
"No promises." He's smiling as he stepped out of the bedroom. "I will need to actually talk to him if he is ever presentable, JARVIS."  
  
"Of course sir, I will let you know."  
  
"I imagine you will electrocute me if I try to go take photos of the armor."  
  
"With prejudice, sir."  
  
"You are definitely a Stark." But, Phil took his leave.

 

* * *

 

 

Well that had been the single most useless briefing Phil had ever done.

 

Not that it was much of a briefing he supposed. It was more that he’d tried to give Tony Stark orders and sort of encouraged him to go along with a cover story. He’d hoped that Stark had seen the logical reasons, personal security if nothing else.

 

Of course, a proverbial fuck-you to a reporter had taken president over whatever plans Phil and SHIELD by implication had had.

 

Fantastic.

 

“Did you know this was going to happen?” Fury shot Phil a look.

 

“No but I’m not surprised either. Asking Tony Stark to do anything that would compromise his identity is a fool’s errand. You knew Howard Stark; this shouldn’t be a shock to you.” Phil replied, eyes still on Tony. “Besides this doesn’t change SHIELD’s intentions at all. He’s going to be a loose cannon, let him. He’ll draw attention and maybe even do some good along the way. If we’re smart, we’ll push intel in the right directions and he’ll solve some problems for us.”

 

“As opposed to just giving him intel.”

 

“Depends on what intel and how we give it. Stark’s going to do what you tell him not to and not do what you want him to. Most of the time anyway, just to remind you that he doesn’t belong to you. We’d need to present intel as an olive branch, not orders.”

 

“Congratulations, Coulson, he’s your problem now.”

 

Phil turned his head, lifting an eyebrow at Nick. “I was rather under the impression that he was already.”

 

“This is why you’re being considered for command, you know.”

 

“Why, because I can see the obvious?” He snorted.

 

“Try not to let too much of Stark’s bad attitude rub off on you.”

 

“Of course not, sir. It might be useful for me to go speak to Rhodes.”

 

“You can do that after your next trip. Go pack your winter gear. You’ll love this.”

 

* * *

 

 

Phil’s a Captain America fan, but really most Dogs are. Captain America is the ideal. If you don’t like Cap, you hate him for being something you can’t reach. It’s polarizing and just comes with the culture of Dogs. So yes, they all know the story, they’ve all read the file.

 

Phil’s thrilled when suddenly everything is unlocked for him and he’s able to go through every bit of data they have. The record of last transmissions sends a chill down his spine, admittedly. It’s always strange to read something and know, it’s their last words.

 

Probably.

 

Because he’s looking at the intel SHIELD now has and he’s willing to agree: they’re really, really close to finding the plane. The heading matches, the metal signal size matches. It’s going to be a cold and potentially dangerous task to get the plane free, but it might actually be possible.

 

“Blame global warming, but the ice moving like it is might actually let us pull the plane and any remaining contents out.” Phil shrugged out of his coat, walking into the relatively warm interior of a ship. “Unfortunately, that ice moving also means a few other things. We’ll have a narrow window of opportunity, and it’ll be dangerous to anyone working the task.”

 

“How narrow?” Fury also shrugged out of his coat.

 

“You’d need to have a field expert give you that answer. We have a few, they’re doing surveys as we speak. For now, all we can do is wait and have the requisite search and recovery crews close and on standby.”

 

“Upper command is not going to like reserving teams indefinitely like that. But, I didn’t make it this far without learning how to hide budgets. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“Thank you for that. If nothing else, we can finally give him a proper burial.”

 

“That’s not why they’re after the plane.” Fury opened a file and took out a series of photos, dropping them on a table on top of old maps spread out there. “They want that.”

 

Phil leaned on the table, frowning. “That’s the artifact that the Captain had on board, right?”

 

“Right. As soon as command got word that we might have found the Captain’s plane, they immediately brought that thing up. From what I’ve read, I’d just as soon leave that thing in the ocean.”

 

“Use it as leverage. If they give us budget to find it, they give us budget to find the Captain. If the artifact still exists, we have plenty of deep secure holes to throw it down.” Phil brushed the photos aside and set a finger on the theoretical crash site that was marked on the map. “We have a chance to see one of SHIELD’s oldest unfinished stories to an end. Let’s finish it.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I moved cross country. Started a new job on dayshift. My brain's been out the window needless to say.
> 
> Short chapter to get back in the swing of things.

"Fuck this week."

 

Phil looked up from a mess of paperwork. His jacket and tie were off, sleeves cuffed and collar open. Of course he hadn't slept in... a while. "No. I think I reserve the right to say that, and also to say fuck-you for dumping Justin Hammer in my lap."

 

Nick groaned and collapsed on the couch in Phil's still shiny, new, completely trashed office. "Ah, fuck, you didn't know."

 

"No I didn't know you total ass! And you know that!" Phil flared, slamming a file on the table. "So now, I have Tony Stark, traumatized but no longer dying, points to us. A trashed Expo that is entirely our fault by proxy, which totally undoes any good of saving Stark. A trashed town in New Mexico."

 

"You handled that well actually, and you made friends with a super powered alien."

 

Phil scoffed and drained cold coffee from a mug. "Don't expect me to be able to leverage that anytime soon. And, of course, a super soldier project gone wrong on its way to Antarctica, and another on the run to points as yet unknown, plus a fuckton more civic damage!"

 

"That one is NOT our fault." Nick put his hands up. "Hammer and Vanko, yeah. That shit is on us."

 

"Who the fuck made that call? Without telling me or Romanov? We could have just transferred Vanko to one of our jails! Shit would have been much more controlled! As in, no high cost civilian asset in jail and no wiped out Expo!"

 

"You are actually yelling at me." Nick observed.

 

"I have every FUCKING right to yell at you over this stupidity!" Phil bellowed, apparently loud enough for other dogs to hear because he got no less than a dozen queries via synergy. "Hammer is a weasel of the highest order but he does not deserve to be fucked over like he is! And with how public this all is we can't exactly waltz in and go, oh, we're sorry, our bad."

 

He groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Alright. I see your point. He's going to be guilty in court."

 

"By our FUCKING negligence!" He looked up when his door was knocked on. "What?!"

 

It cracked open and Clint stuck his head in. "... do I need to kill someone, boss?"

 

Phil narrowed his eyes at Fury. "Currently under review, ask again later."

 

"Yikes." Clint ducked back out.

 

"Your clusterfuck has been dumped into my lap, Fury! And don't you dare tell me to fix it because you didn't give me the intel to avoid this in the first place."

 

"I'll get legal to look at Hammer's situation and try to find the best possible solution." Nick said after a few beats, almost flustered by Phil's yelling. "It is our fault, even if he probably muddied those waters further, and you're right, it isn't entirely fair to let him scapegoat for our horrible attempt at putting an Op on the black books."

 

"Someone needs to be demoted if not drummed out for that decision." He sat heavily and scrubbed at his itchy burning eyes. "Thanks for the authorization. Legal should have this anyway so I can focus on cleanup operations. Three. At once."

 

"Actually I need you to delegate that. I came bearing good news." He almost smiled when Phil glared death at him. "We found the plane. The window is likely small to get it out. The crew's already working. I want you to go meet it and escort the contents back, whatever they happen to be."

 

Phil stared, then folded his arms on his desk and set his forehead on them.

 

"You have an hour. Delegate and pack, you can sleep on the plane."

 

"I don't have words to express how I feel right now."

 

"Thanks would be nice."

 

Phil decided he may not have words but he has a gesture, and used it accordingly.

 

* * *

 

 

The hair on the back of Phil’s neck stood on end when he saw the body. It was a shock, really, his mind racing for a split second but everything was superfluous to the fact that he was alive.

 

Captain America was alive. “He’s alive.” He sounds a little dumbfounded, but he doubts anyone here blames him for letting that emotion slip out.

 

“We think so.” One of the techs agreed. “But we don’t have any vitals yet.”

 

“Skin lividity. I’ve seen frozen bodies. He’s still flush. His lips are pink.” He took a few steps closer, staring down at the hunk of ice and the body within. “.. strange. Wasn’t he in the pilot’s seat?”

 

“We have to assume he tried to get out and succumbed.” A tech admitted. “Warming him up is going to take time. Super soldier or not we need to give his body time to adapt and recover as he comes back.”

 

“We recovered him and his shield, and the tesseract.” Another tech said, nodding at a heavy locked safe. “There was nothing else in the plane. We’re going to try to recover it for historical reasons but there’s no guarantees.”

 

“I’d say we got what’s immediately important.” Phil eyed the safe then looked to the Captain. “Do what you need to but make sure it can fit on a quinjet. We’re going to start heading back to base.”

 

“Which base sir?”

 

Phil blinked at them. “New York, where else? He’s a Brooklyn boy and we’re taking him home.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

Steve Rogers waking up was like a goddamn supernova. Bright, intensely hot and sending a shockwave outward. It was also entirely unexpected and SHIELD dogs reacted as it passed, jerking or staggering, a muffled outcry of acknowledgement crossing the globe.

 

Synergy had conventional distance limits. This did not. Steve Rogers was on the synergy network and he was a north star, alpha, and the dogs in reasonable range reached back immediately because Rogers blared disorientation, and unease, both of which ramped upward sharply as Rogers seemed to realize some of what he was hearing/feeling/sensing was not himself.

 

Phil was there because of course he was. On the flight back, with the Captain on board, he'd made a lot of phone calls. He'd volunteered, but Fury had already assigned him. What had baffled some of command is all high rank dogs had immediately requested to be shifted temporarily to New York. The Captain had had a constant rotating honor guard. Respect for the master copy, Clint had joked, but that wasn't far off.

 

So he watched via camera as the Captain sat on the bed and tried to figure out what was happening, parsing the wrongness of his immediate environment as well as the wrongness in his head. Or the rightness, Phil suspected, but Rogers had been alone in World War II, and no one had even considered that Rogers' serum was close enough to the dog serum for the synergy to connect. Gross oversight but with little data on the Captain America serum possibly unavoidable.

 

"What's happening?" Fury wanted to know.

 

"He's on the synergy network sir. He can sense us." Phil replied carefully and every non-dog in the room turned to look at him. "And we, him. Dogs on the other side of the planet felt him wake up, I think. It was like a sunrise."

 

Rumlow shouldered up next to Phil and looked at the displays before looking at him. Phil didn't have to look back. "Go." Brock turned and all but dead sprinted from the room, synergy rippling madly through the building as a nurse in era-appropriate clothing spoke to Steve Rogers and he didn't believe a word of it.

 

"Coulson. Speak." Fury demanded.

 

"He's going to run and you're going to let him and we're going to open the way for him." Phil replied, already pushing orders at the network and feeling Steve notice it. Notice him.

 

Turn his head and stare straight at the camera.

 

"We're made. Five, four, three, two..."

 

He's one second off. Rogers is out the door, running and Rumlow skidded the corner, arms pumping but not chasing, matching Steve's stride and running with him. Other dogs had already scattered through the building and were opening secured doors so Steve was able to get through each one, watching him run by and a few calling after him.

 

"Rumlow's in his pocket and is going to stay there as long as he can and try to keep him safe." Phil said, finally looking at Fury. "I told you this was a stupid fucking plan. I'll try to get Rumlow to steer him to Times Square or somewhere else that's a landmark. We'll meet them when they stop."

 

Fury frowned. “I’m not convinced this is in your control.”

 

He ignored him, half shut his eyes and tried to keep track of Rumlow. The distance was stretching the connection already, but Rogers was easy to find and Rumlow’s in pace.

 

_WHO ARE YOU_

 

It nearly bowled him over, stumbling a bit in place and feeling Fury grab his elbow to steady him. “Rogers is loud.” He said out loud before the question was asked, and as an answer just mentally pulled up his badge, then Rumlow’s, and sent it along. “He’s also very, very fast and ignoring most of Rumlow’s attempt at direction. Most. Let’s move. I’m driving.” He moved and Fury followed, Clint and a few other dogs immediately falling in step double time to the garage after them.

 

* * *

 

 

Brock looked like hell and Phil damn near laughed about it. He was leaning on his knees panting and potentially contemplating vomiting, but he was right next to Captain Rogers, who was staring around shell-shocked, then at Fury with the same expression before flicking his eyes between Phil and Fury.

 

“No, you won’t be able to hear him in your head.” Phil said gently. “He doesn’t have the serum. We do. If you’ll come back with us we’ll be able to give a better explanation, in detail.”

 

They were, after all, standing in a street and traffic was getting increasingly angry about it around them.

 

“The serum.” Steve echoed, expression not changing and looking at Rumlow when he straightened up.

 

“Long story, sir.”

 

“I don’t want to stay on base.”

 

“That’s reasonable.” Fury decided. “Now come on. New York hasn’t gotten any gentler and if we keep blocking traffic we might get shot at.”

 

Steve didn’t smile, but moved, and didn’t argue when Phil and Brock bracketed him on the way to the SUV.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve Rogers ended up asking for (borderline demanding) Phil and Brock as his official connections going forward. Neither argued, hell, they were sort of thrilled even if it meant that Steve was using them to figure out synergy.

 

Which had been a long briefing. Steve had wanted the entire story so they had gotten out files going back to Gen 1, warning him that some of what was inside was not pleasant. They’d had to explain Paperclip as well, naturally, and Steve’s horrified, sickened expression as he’d gone through the files on the first and second generations of Dogs was going to stay with Phil for a very, very long time.

 

Still, he’s not going to lie or withhold information from Captain America. He’s not even sure he can. He hasn’t told command, but he’s reasonably certain that Steve can subvert or change the loyalty coding. The idea of ignoring command to listen to Captain Rogers brings no discomfort, if anything, just the opposite.

 

Steve learned quickly to block the network out but also learned quickly to reach out and touch the dogs he wanted and make requests, so loud and clear he may have been standing in front of them making it. Luckily, perhaps, that was limited to Phil and Brock.

 

Phil got Steve an off-base apartment in New York, nothing large or fancy, but furnished and not part of SHIELD’s official property so not bugged (and he intends to keep it that way as long as he can). He also got Steve a phone and explained it, bookmarking the location of the nearest groceries, restaurants, and other necessities. Brock connected Steve to an all-hours gym that was used to Dogs and wouldn’t question another amped-up soldier at all. They answered all his questions and tried to give the other man space.

 

It made for a long and strange forty-eight hours, and Phil spent a lot of it reassuring everyone else in SHIELD that Captain America is fine, he’s fine, you don’t need to bother him right now, let him recover. Command of course didn’t want to hear it. Phil ignored them generally but passed on to Steve, on the second day, that command was interested in a detailed briefing when he felt able.

 

“Was this the same command that decided to have me wake up in that room?” Steve replied, looking at a binder of drawing paper and charcoal pencils that had appeared on his coffee table along with hard copy files and a tablet computer.

 

“I can’t claim to know who made that choice. I can say I disagreed with it, rather loudly.” Phil admitted. “Probably whoever decided that meant well, somehow.”

 

“Well, if it put into your mind that SHIELD will lie to suit their needs, then I suppose it may have served some purpose.” Brock pointed out. Steve looked up to quirk an eyebrow. “What, I’m not being eavesdropped on here, I can be honest. Phil won’t tell on me.”

 

“True.” Phil nodded left-right once. “We’re lifers in the Agency. Loyal, but as with anything, there’s issues. It’s a spy organization. Getting the whole story usually involves security clearances.”

 

“What clearance do I have?” Steve seemed curious.

 

“I haven’t asked, but since you were part of Strategic Scientific Reserve, I assumed at least level eight.” Phil smiled and shrugged.

 

Steve looked down at his SSR shirt. “Tell whoever found these thanks, by the way.”

 

“I shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay. It's taken a long time to get used to dayshift enough for my brain to start engaging again.


	16. Chapter 16

Brock Rumlow should have been a photographer.

 

This curious thought struck Phil as he scrolled his phone, never so glad that SHIELD phones had spy-grade cameras. Steve had asked Brock if he could get out of the city, Phil had authorized it without hesitation, and for some reason Brock had photographed the transition. The photos of Steve Rogers in a major grocery store, getting perishables for the safe house with Brock, was rather poignant.

 

It was, Phil knew, probably the widest selection of food Steve had ever seen and his expression was so many things, shock, awe, a little sadness. From there, Brock had sent him a series of photos, a strange photo journal following a man out of his time.

 

He was reasonably certain Brock had never taken a photography class, but hell, most dogs read voraciously and went to museums because they often got in discounted or free. So maybe it shouldn't have been surprising that the photos had good lighting, atmosphere and even understood the rule of three.

 

"Does Rumlow know he's crushing harder than a preteen watching Titanic?" Clint mumbled from where his face was buried into Phil's neck.

 

Phil laughed softly, scrolling his phone one-handed, other hand sliding over Clint's back. "I think it's cute."

 

"You would." Clint shifted, worrying over a mark he'd put on Phil's neck not half an hour earlier, making Phil suck a breath in.

 

"That is going to show around my suit collar." He admonished, then set his phone aside when Clint's synergy got very satisfied. "Jealous much?"

 

"No. Yes. It's Captain fucking America for fuck's sake. You've only been in love with him since you were a kid and now he's here."

 

"I loved the idea of him. The concept. It led me to where I am right now." Phil sighed, stroking through Clint's short hair. "I didn't know the man, I still don't, and I don't know if he wants to know me."

 

"Harsh." Clint rolled on top, propping his chin on one hand and looking down at him. "I don't know why someone wouldn't want to know you. You're one of the best people SHIELD has whether they know it or not."

 

He snorted. "You flatter. I'm sure if Pierce knew everything he wouldn't be nearly as alright with my being pushed for promotion."

 

Clint rolled his eyes. "Like anyone gives a shit what Pierce thinks beyond the bare minimum necessary for orders."

 

Phil only hummed. "Don't be jealous of Rogers, okay? The most I'd ask for is his respect, and I think I have that."

 

"He better respect you. I'd make a joke about him finding a more age-appropriate minion, but he might be stuck with Rumlow."

 

"Who's a capable strike team leader and would make a good second in command to Rogers. That might be what Brock's aiming for. Or he might not be thinking that far ahead and he's trying to figure out why he's so happy to help."

 

"Crushing harder than a teenage girl reading Twilight."

 

He snickered. "Be nice. To his face at least."

 

"Of course I will, I want a front row seat to this shit."

 

Phil's response was cut off by his phone chirping and he grumbled, stretching to reach it because Clint didn't move at all. "Coulson."

 

"You and Barton, pack your gear. I'm heading west and you're both coming with me."

 

"Any particular point west?" Phil didn't bother asking how Nick knew Clint was with him.

 

"We're checking up on Selvig. He says they're close to figuring it out."

 

"Close." Phil repeated. "Right, when do we leave?"

 

"Two hours. Meet me at the quinjets." Nick hung up.

 

"Selvig and the creepy alien thing we pulled up with Cap?" Clint asked.

 

"Yes indeed. Get up and pack expecting trouble." He swatted Clint's ass.

 

"I'd point out we're going to be on a secure base but, creepy alien thing." He grunted and rolled off, hitting the floor. "Dammit I had further plans for you."

 

"I kind of like you jealous." Phil hummed, then laughed when Clint flipped him off.

 

* * *

 

 

Clint broadcast, panicked and loud, before disappearing, silent and cold-blue from the synergy network.

 

The dogs in range were left with a series of impressions, a loose description of Loki (tall, pale/sickly, eyes flicking between blue and green, alien) and a scream of danger. It left the dogs hearing it with two unshakeable certainties. One, that one of their own was alive and compromised. Two, that Loki was the enemy.

 

Phil managed his anger and worry, locked it up tight and made phone calls, and answered questions from command as calmly as he could. Command was more concerned about the synergy network being compromised than Barton being in enemy hands, and wanted a shoot on sight order.

 

Phil refused, and Fury backed him up, limitedly.

 

"He shot me." Fury told Phil as Phil helped load the crates from the truck he escaped on to a quinjet.

 

"He shot your vest when he had a clear shot at your head." Phil replied.

 

There was nothing further to say.

 

* * *

 

 

"Nice hickey." Was how Tony greeted Phil.

 

"Thanks. Help us out and you might even meet the man who gave it to me." Phil deadpanned, offering the tablet out. Pepper took it.

 

"I am not part of your super-secret boy band."

 

"Your former secretary..."

 

"The double or was it triple agent, the redhead, that one?"

 

"Is currently fetching your man crush from overseas." Phil finished, and was satisfied at Tony's expression and Pepper's amusement. "Come on, we've already got your dad's man crush what could go wrong?"

 

"You're horrible and I hate you for that mental image." Tony took the tablet from Pepper.

 

"But you're not saying I'm wrong."

 

"Uh huh. You make command yet?"

 

"Not yet."

 

"Right. Go, let me do my homework."

 

Phil smiled and it was almost real as Pepper showed him out, even managing to make small talk.

 

* * *

 

 

"I want to give you a bit of a warning about Stark."

 

"I knew Howard." Steve pointed out.

 

"They're exactly the same and nothing alike. Tony would rather set himself on fire than be told he's like his dad." When Steve blinked, he continued. "I only bring this up because he is going to try to get a rise out of you. He tests people but he'll only ever mock you for your strengths never your weaknesses. Let him bounce off you a few times and he'll decide you aren't fun and tone it down."

 

"You like him."

 

Phil almost smiled as the quinjet set down on the carrier. "Yes, though it would be fair to say I barely know the man."

 

"Seems you know him pretty well."

 

"Boss has a soft spot for smartasses." Brock said, shouldering his pack as they got off.

 

"Which explains him." Phil didn't miss a beat, and got flipped off.

 

Steve snorted, looking across the tarmac then moving to meet Natasha and an incredibly unnerved looking Dr. Bruce Banner.

 

* * *

 

 

For a very short while, everything went well. Not exactly as planned, as nothing had exactly been planned. But Loki was captured and no one was killing each other, even as Tony Stark went around deliberately trying to annoy the shit out of everyone. There being no sighting of Clint worried Phil enough that the attack felt as planned as any of this was, an inevitability. Enough so that when the alarms went off, his first thought was, _there’s my puppy._

 

The strike teams on board, bolstered by the gathering of misfit heroes, mauled the forces that Clint had brought with him. Most of the damage done, Clint did, in a precise enough way that it could somehow be undone or eventually recovered from. Phil’s able to note that, even as he looks between screens then heads for experimental weapons lockers.

 

In the end, Loki bests him. He feels every bit of the scepter, but not the pain exactly as his body compensates. He’s aware, as he goes down, that he’s loudly broadcast that he’s injured. Kneejerk reaction, man-down call, and the reactions from the others in range are too many, too difficult to parse.

 

It’s a good death, he decides, even if he wasn’t able to save Thor. For that, he’s very sorry. His awareness slides, a bit, then Nick’s there.

 

“Coulson. Eyes on me.”

 

He manages that, because really, he’d rather not look anywhere else. Though he’s aware that medics are arriving, and there’s other dogs making sure the room’s secure. “Time to put me down, boss.”

 

“No, it isn’t. Keep your eyes on me and stay awake.”

 

“It’s okay. ‘S a good death. Long service life. They’ll understand. Watch Cli…”

 

That’s as far as he gets before the lights fade out, though he does get the sensation of many hands on him. _My life was circular_ , he decided vaguely. _I became a dog reassuring Nick with many hands on me. I died a dog the same way._

_It’s enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, it's not the end, but as a warning, we're diverting harder from some of the MCU canon starting now.


	17. Chapter 17

Waking up reminded Phil of scuba diving at night. Like a lot of operators, he’d had dive training and the sensation was similar at first. Darkness, weightlessness by wont of being held by weight and pressure from all directions, relative quiet except for the hiss of an air regulator. As he came further awake those sensations resolved to lying propped on his side, pillows behind him and someone curled in front of him not quite touching, the sensation of a regulator becoming an oxygen mask.

 

Opening his eyes was difficult but he did it, taking in a dim private hospital room and the familiar shape of Clint curled up beside him on the bed, eyes shut. Beyond, under the one lamp on in the room, was Nick, staring at a tablet. He tried to say something but it came out a raw raspy whine, making Nick startle and look at him. “Phil.” He picked up the nurse call button and hit it before moving to the edge of the bed, reaching out to help him take off the oxygen mask.

 

Phil tried to speak again but his voice didn’t obey, a reedy croak coming out instead. His mouth and throat were dry and rough, and he made another noise when the lights blazed on, a nurse in scrubs coming in, eyes pressing shut and cringing away from the brightness. The cup with a straw almost made up for it though and he took a few greedy swallows of cold water as Clint stirred next to him with a derisive noise.

 

“Good to see you awake, Agent Coulson.”

 

“How long?” He’s still rough and raspy, but at least the words get out.

 

“This is almost midnight of day six. They were keeping you under and intubated until about twelve hours ago.” Nick replied. “They took you off the drugs and we’ve just been hoping you’d wake up on your own.”

 

“Phil?” Clint scrubbed his eyes then beamed, letting the nurse all but shove him off the bed. “Oh thank fuck oh thank everything.”

 

The nurse ignored them both, looking at Phil’s eyes then putting a stethoscope on. “I know this is a lot but how are you feeling?”

 

“Confused.” He has to consider. “Tired.”

 

“Alive and lucid.” Clint was frantically texting, a grin stuck on his face.

 

“Gentlemen, all due respect but get out for now. Both of you.” The nurse snapped, and Nick grabbed Clint and dragged him out. “Barton’s barely left since you got out of surgery.” She said that more quietly, helping Phil shift so she could unwrap bandages on his chest. “The Director’s been here on and off, along with all of the Avengers and a lot of Dogs. You’ve had a rotating honor guard.”

 

He’s not certain he heard that right. “Avengers?”

 

The door reopened and Garrett, in a dog shirt and BDU pants, stuck his head in. “Welcome back asshole, don’t you know you’re not allowed to die? You’re supposed to promote and advocate for us and shit.”

 

He shut his eyes in total denial of the world, and ended up falling back asleep.

* * *

 

It was another day and a half before Phil was off most of the remaining machines and was able to sit up in bed. Or, as he thought of it, was allowed to get up and take a piss with minor assistance. Pretty good progress for a guy who’d apparently flat lined three times in short order before being put on bypass.

 

“The scepter missed your spine but went straight through several of your ribs, winged one of your lungs and did serious damage to your heart.” The SHIELD doctor was sitting on a chair next to Phil’s bed. Phil was sitting up, nibbling on the plainest chicken ever made and a plain baked potato. At least they’d conceded to let him have food. He was still on an IV as it was. “Probably the only reason you were still barely alive when you hit the table was your serum.”

 

“I thought I was dead.” He admitted. “I knew my serum was pretty well gone. At my age, that’s expected, or so I thought.”

 

“Correct and we knew we couldn’t count on it. We got you on bypass as fast as we could but it was sketchy and there was so much damage that wasn’t going to be enough. You lost a lot of blood so after the fight on the carrier was over, Fury asked Captain Rogers to donate without consulting us first.”

 

He paused with the fork halfway up. “Captain Rogers donated blood to me.”

 

“Four pints without question, as long as he saw all the pints go to you with nothing left over.”

 

Four pints. He had four pints of Captain America’s blood. “And that…?”

 

“Worked? Yes. We understand that he doesn’t want to be a guinea pig further, but the results were immediate and dramatic. Once it got around that Rogers was donating blood to you, other dogs volunteered, and those donations were blended down so you more or less got a straight dose of serum.” The doctor paused. “You’re here. It worked. You’re lucky that you’re a universal blood recipient.”

 

“But?”

 

The doctor sighed and pinched her nose. “We pulled files on everyone who donated. Your body currently has your serum, Captain Roger’s serum, and five other serums all at once, three of which are attack dog serums, not guard dog serums. We’ve previously at least been careful to have guard dogs donate to guard dogs, attack dogs to attack dogs, if not donate in the same serum batch unless it’s an absolute emergency. We have no idea how this is going to pan out. You might end up losing your abilities entirely, you might end up having weak ones, or seeing them shift.”

 

He blinked twice. “I’ll work with it. It’s not like I have a choice, after all.” He has Captain America’s blood. He feels pleased in a creepy sort of way.

 

“Good man. Be sure to report any changes to us as things settle.”

 

“Can I please have some pants.”

 

“You’ll have to make do with scrub pants.”

 

“Those qualify as pants. Good enough.”

 

They not only found him pants, they found him a top that looked like a scrub top from the front, but had snaps on the back. They also finally took him off the IVs, and he was studying his new bandages from that when there was a gentle tap at the door and he looked up to see Clint.

 

Clint hovered for a moment, looking at him before crossing the room in three strides and wrapping his arms around him, tucking his face into Phil’s neck. “Sir.” His voice was muzzy and choked up, and he was shivering.

 

“Hawkeye.” He returned softly, rubbing both hands up and down Clint’s spine before holding him. “Did something happen?”

 

“You’re standing up. I nearly lost you and it was my fault and you got so hurt and you’re on your feet again.” He choked off into a sob and buried his face further, rasping against Phil’s over a week of beard growth in the process.

 

“This was in no way your fault. Everything that happened, Loki caused. I’m just happy you’re still here. Thank you for staying with me, while I slept.”

 

“I refused to leave.”

 

He smiled a bit and slid one hand to cup along the back of Clint’s neck, playing with the short hair there for a few moments and relieved when Clint relaxed a bit. “You’re always welcome where I am. You know that.”

 

“I dunno. You’re being promoted. Might not be good optics for you anymore, to have me hanging around.” Clint muttered.

 

“Shove the optics.”

 

“I can’t agree more.” Tony Stark’s voice happily interrupted. “Sorry to interrupt this wonderful Kodak moment, but hey Agent, ready for us to debrief you about the fight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to split the intel review into another chapter.


	18. Chapter 18

“Private room, very nice, makes sense for a man of your station, but no TV? What in the fresh hell, Agent, let me get you out of here and into a better place.” Tony was talking while getting a laptop out of his bag, taking over the meal tray and opening it, then pulling out what appeared to be a small projector.

 

He blinked. “I like how that started out as a compliment for the medical here and turned into an insult, very nice, Stark. And the TV doesn’t matter, I’ve spent most of my time recently in a medically induced coma.” He let Clint help jockey him in a suddenly crowded room, sitting on the bed and moving it to a sitting position, staring at everyone. “Forgive me if I don’t stay standing to greet you all.”

 

“No. It’s fine.” Steve shouldered to the front. “I think we’re all just happy to be able to speak to you at this point.”

 

Phil had to take a slow breath before holding his hand out. “Your generosity probably saved my life, Captain, thank you.”

 

He smiled a bit and took Phil’s hand. “I’m just glad it worked. How are you feeling? You seem quiet.”

 

“Oh. Yes, I’m still on drugs called silencers. No synergy for me until I heal further. Otherwise, I’m somewhat on my feet but tire easily and still in some pain.”

 

Brock scoffed. “Still in some pain says the living kabob. Jokes aside, good to see you still alive, boss.”

 

“Thanks for being less of an asshole than John was.”

 

“Want me to kick his ass?”

 

He snorted and took in the crowd. Stark, Rogers, Romanov, Barton, Rumlow, and two more hanging back he recognized as other strike team leaders, Sanchez and Tiller. “Okay. So, I haven’t heard anything but I assume Thor has gone home and taken his brother with him to listen to goth music and paint his bedroom black. I also assume that Stark has Doctor Banner stashed in a closet at home somewhere.”

 

“Close enough.” Natasha deadpanned.

 

“And I assume that I can get a comprehensive narrative from the rest of you, providing you don’t try to talk over each other. And Stark’s providing pictures and a map, so apparently you’ve all been planning this. I think I had the general flow of things until I was stabbed. Start there, please.”

 

It was, predictably, a long discussion because Phil wasn’t comfortable with having anything in the abstract. The immediate wake of the fight had Thor and Hulk off the ship, Loki gone, Barton’s bell rung and restrained for his own safety, and everyone else having seen some better days. Nick had apparently postponed any further discussion of Loki in favor of leading the conversation with ‘Coulson is alive, and Captain, I need your help.’

 

Phil’s not sure how he feels about it, if he’s honest. He’s trying not to think about Fury today because it makes him feel uncomfortable, almost nauseous, and he hasn’t yet pinpointed why.

 

Stark and the Captain had apparently come to some kind of truce during the fight, and had talked while Rogers had donated blood. Which was apparently when Stark had hit on some of the finer points of Loki’s psychology and had come to a realization about where, exactly, Loki might be going.

 

The carrier, being just barely holding itself in the air and slowly limping toward a drydock for repair, was in no state to fly into a major metropolis for battle and it was highly unlikely that they’d be allowed to do that anyway. But, there were quinjets still able to fly, enough to get the remaining Avengers and the two strike teams that had volunteered off the carrier with no official order from Fury, as apparently the Council was in full-tilt bag-of-dicks mode.

 

It was Rumlow who’d gotten in contact with SHIELD’s New York base. The oldest standing base they had, in fact an entire skyscraper that had gone through various internal renovations while still looking like it was from the 1940s on the outside, housed a lot of non-combat assets but also plenty of combat ones including dogs. Normal channels abandoned because of the Council, Rumlow had just called private cell phones and had rousted Tiller and Sanchez, who apparently only needed to hear ‘Captain America requests…’ and ‘potential alien invasion’ to be all-in for potential ground operations in New York City.

 

During this Tony had gotten ahold of JARVIS and had been able to evacuate his building just in time for Loki to arrive with a spare handful of mind-whammied minions. JARVIS was evidently NOT HAPPY about the home invasion but was also willing to quietly set some things in motion while waiting for the Avengers to arrive.

 

Call it luck or anything else, but as a portal opened in the sky and the various strike teams and the Avengers were contemplating their odds, Bruce Banner arrived in borrowed clothes on a scooter, and Thor had not been far behind.

The resulting fight, pieced together with reports from those in the room, news footage, cell phone footage and satellite data, beggared belief. And yet, staring at the aftermath, there was only one thing Coulson could say.

 

“Someone needs to contact Thor because Loki could not have actually been planning to win with that force. There’s something else at play here. Either Loki was trapped and either unwilling or unable to ask for help, or it’s a convoluted long game.” He’s tired as hell, this is the longest he’s been awake in a week but he’s still sitting up, cradling a mug because the nurses had denied him coffee but allowed him tea.

 

“Interesting.” Natasha said after a beat.

 

“But he’s not wrong.” Tony pointed out, closing his laptop. “These guys fall to conventional weaponry, which means yeah, they could have been nuked, and one nuke would likely have done it. Technically sort of did, the nuke I shoved into space might have taken out their space fleet from what very little I saw.”

 

“And even without nuclear weaponry in play, they wouldn’t have taken even the eastern seaboard.” Brock was contemplative. “The army and marines would have chewed them up. Only the giant flying things would have been any real concern and anyone who’s played Zelda can probably get around ‘shoot it in the mouth’ as a weak point. And they were so slow that a few A10s could have probably dealt with them over time.”

 

“And we’re not the only military. Canada’s close, and Canada’s military isn’t huge but it is not to be fucked with.” Clint pointed out. “And if we put out a distress call, we have allies. It would have sucked but it would have been won.”

 

“I’m just sitting here amused at the idea of Mexico being called to assist with an alien invasion.” Sanchez said. “Hell yeah, they’d probably do it. Dogpile on the off-planet threat. Most militaries in the world could mobilize stuff and get it here within twelve hours if they had permission.”

 

“So you all see my point. This isn’t even a half assed invasion. So what was it?” Phil wanted to know.

 

Everyone looked at each other and shook their heads slowly.

 

“I don’t like any of the theories I have.” Tony admitted. “But how this started, easy probably. Loki and Thor’s family, massive trouble at home, right? Loki actually manages to jump off Asgard and free fall into space. Leaving aside the massive problems I have with every word of that previous sentence, that means anyone could have happened across him and picked him up. Free prince.”

 

“Hostage. Leverage. Pick your word.” Phil nodded once. “So that gets Loki into the hands of who invaded. If not directly, then eventually.”

 

“Anything from there demands us knowing how Loki’s brain works, but, four guesses.” He started counting on his fingers. “One, he redirected them from Asgard to Earth, pick your reason. Two, he chose Earth because he knows his brother likes it. Three, he was a prisoner, not an ally and figured we could chew them up, so twisted escape. Four, in denial of the previous theory, he was already here and aiming for what we had.”

 

“The goddamn tesseract.” Clint blinked. “That’s how he got here, and he was using Selvig the whole time during this shit.”

 

“I mean, yeah. So it’s at least partly theory four, probably with pieces of the others but let’s just keep in mind that Loki is a crazy person so this might all be because the sky here is the wrong shade of blue.”

 

“I hate to say this boss but I don’t think we can plan properly for that flavor of crazy.” Tiller said after a beat. “Trying to plan further for offworld threats, yeah, the entire planet is going to have to discuss that.”

 

“North Korea thinks it’s an elaborate ruse put together by the American imperialists.” Brock was amused. “But everyone else who really exists in this current reality is already talking about how to respond to future attacks of not of this planet.”

 

“Which could lead to another worldwide arms race.” Steve said. “Based on reverse engineered alien tech. Tony, how long before that’s worldwide?”

 

“Who’s developing them because it’s not me. If we give them to Justin Hammer we’ll be back to throwing spears. I say we give it to him.”

 

“Justin Hammer was working undercover for SHIELD and got fucked over.” Phil said flatly, and it was worth Tony’s expression. “And I highly doubt the poor man will get to ever hold a handgun again legally let alone experimental lasers even with an entire agency department trying to unfuck him.”

 

“Oh. Well.” He tipped his head. “Okay so you’re going to be really fun as a member of SHIELD command and I wanted to talk to you about it, as an actual outsider who has not drank the flavor aid.”

 

“God dammit, Tony.” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“Wasn’t it kool aid?” Clint blinked.

 

“No, actually, I think Jonestown did fact use knock off kool aid called flavor aid.” Natasha replied.

 

“That’s even more tragic.”

 

“Could you two just not right now?” Brock asked them.

 

“It could be my funeral and they’d still be doing that.” Phil told Brock then looked at Tony. “Okay. What?”

 

“You died. You are one of the few dogs who can legally lift a middle finger and take retirement as a civilian.” Tony put up both hands as the dogs in the room suggested where he shove that. “These self-serving bullies aside, I’m not actually suggesting you do that, I’m suggesting you make your command very aware that you know that, and shove it to them.”

 

Phil blinked, then blinked again. “I wasn’t even considering retirement but okay, I’m now officially intrigued. Use it as leverage, but for what?”

 

“They tried to nuke New York, I would not put it past these fuckheads to promote you to command and still have you in your current living arrangement.”

 

“Asshole genius has a good point.” Brock said after a beat.

 

“If you do retire, I have a job and a publicist waiting so you can write a tell all book in complete comfort.” Tony said brightly, making Phil snort. “Come on, that shit would sell. But really, if they do promote you to command, let alone Director of Operations, make demands. Make a lot of demands. That job comes with a high dollar paycheck. Demand it. If they don’t want to give it straight to you, demand it and more as expense money to be designated as you and only you see fit. Demand high dollar housing. Hell, demand a ball pit or an actual ranch for dogs to retire to.”

 

“So we can be literally sent to the farm?” Clint wanted to know, then paused.

 

“That is not actually a bad idea from a recovery standpoint.” Natasha said after a beat.

 

“I get what you’re aiming at and noted. Thank you, Tony, it’s actually very good advice.” Phil said gently. “Even if I don’t know if I’m being promoted.”

 

“I do know. You are.” Brock said seriously. “Good luck, we’re all counting on you.”

 

Phil considered as he drank his tea, then flipped him off.


	19. Chapter 19

The shower was nearly scalding hot but it was heaven. After ten days with only limited ability to clean up, he wanted to scour off layers of bandage grime and medicine and actually wake up. He was finally off of the ICU ward and officially in recovery, in a private room that had a desk he could work from because it’d probably be a bit, yet, before he was even officially even on light duty.

 

The nurses had given him a shave kit so he considered the thick scruff growing in, staring at the shots of grey before lathering up and grabbing the razor. He exited the bathroom of his own power, clean shaven and wearing sweats and a muscle shirt. He’s still got stitches, back and front but it’s not nearly as bad as it should have been. The Captain’s blood had healed him, and he was realizing, was changing him, which was pushed home when he saw who his guest was.

 

The smell of food filled his room and Nick was sprawled in a chair, a takeout bag on the desk. “You got rid of the beard.”

 

“I’m supposedly being promoted, have to play the part.” Phil stepped over and considered the takeout.

 

“I cleared it with the nurses. I brought you hot and sour soup and steamed dumplings.” Nick smiled as he stood, reaching out to touch Phil’s cheek.

 

It would have been easy to lean into the touch, to let his eyes slip shut and let the decades-old status quo stand between them. Instead, he leaned away, liberated the container of soup and took a few neat steps back, opening it to drink straight from the container and stare Nick in the eye as he did so.

 

“…What just happened?” Nick was staring at him, having pulled his hand back.

 

“Thank you for the food but please, give me space.” He licked his lips slowly.

 

It’s something of an old code phrase that from a dog basically means ‘fuck off, don’t touch me,’ and Nick visibly jerked before moving on. “Yeah, okay. You’re recovering from injury. I wasn’t going to do anything, Phil.”

 

“Really.” He deliberately turned his back, moving to stare out the window as he drank his soup. “Seems to me fucking someone you know has very limited ability to say no because their brain’s been reprogrammed without their knowledge is very much doing something, Nick.” He didn’t look at him in the silence that followed. “My serum is dead. I’m free. And please, do us both the service of not denying anything I just said. I figured out how this works. SHIELD has never disclosed to dogs exactly what the serum does, especially the mental side. The loyalty thing.”

 

Nick was silent for several long moments before moving to stand next to Phil, staring at the window. “I can’t say I ever expected you to play hardball with our relationship.”

 

“We don’t have one and we never did. If you want to try to be my friend moving forward, we can try that, starting at square one, but you never, ever get to touch me again. Not negotiable.”

 

“Fine. You’re right. The loyalty programming is far more extensive than disclosed. This was, originally, a mistake and it took a full dog generation to realize that. There was a delay between generations while SHIELD tried to decide if it could or should be fixed. It wasn’t. Disclosure was also discussed, and command decided against it, arguing dogs know exactly what they’re signing up for.”

 

“I should put a chopstick in your good eye.”

 

Nick ignored him. “I couldn’t disclose to you just because you were a friend and I liked you, Phil. I liked you before you took the serum. We were friends before the serum.”

 

“Then the serum took away my ability to say no with any weight.”

 

“Is that how you think it works?”

 

Phil finally looked at him. “It took away my ability to consider any alternative future. It didn’t stop me from saying no, it made me think there wasn’t a compelling reason to. Why would I say no to you? You’ve been nothing but kind and looked after me and stood by me and had my back. Right?”

 

Nick sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“So let’s go over our relative positions, to wit, I have you by the fucking balls.”

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

“I died. I am free. I can walk out of here, right now, and SHIELD has no legal recourse. I checked. I can walk out of here, take a paycheck from Stark and write a tell all book and burn this place to the ground with what I know.”

 

Nick stared at Phil, then slowly smiled. “But you’re not going to do that.”

 

“No. I’m not. You’re going to promote me and I’m going to be Director of Operations. You’re going to give me the pay and housing that that job commands, as well as total dominion over all dogs. There are going to be changes moving forward if SHIELD expects this program to continue. Oh, and one more thing: This promotion is public. As in, announced. Name and photo. Everybody is going to know a dog made Director of Operations, and if I suddenly die, everyone is going to draw some conclusions as to why.” He tipped his head slightly and snorted. “And you’re going to enjoy every minute of it aren’t you.”

 

“See, you just gave me a reaming only slightly kinder than one given to a rapist, but the fact is, I love you very much and this just makes me love you more. Because you getting off the leash and tearing into the rest of command will be very worth any bite marks I get in passing.”

 

He turned back to the window and drank his soup. “Jackass.”

 

“You realize once you start this ball rolling there is no coming back. You will have attention from around the world. SHIELD doesn’t exactly announce its changes in command like that.”

 

“That’s exactly what I want. Makes it even better if I decide to walk away later.”

 

There was a silence as they both looked out the window at the courtyard of the hospital.

 

“Write your tell all book on some server owned by Stark and have it on a dead man’s switch.” Fury said it quietly. “You have every right to do what you’re about to do, in my opinion. But you’re going to make a lot of powerful enemies, very fast.”

 

“How about you send me on vacation to recover the rest of the way then.”

 

“Beach, drinks with little umbrellas, lots of fine ass parading around? Consider it done.”

 

“I’m not raising this hell for you.”

 

“Really, are you sure you’re not?” Nick quirked an eyebrow then had to dodge backward and tumble over the bed as Phil grabbed a pen and tried to make good on going after Nick’s good eye.

 


	20. Chapter 20

“Brass balls, Coulson, I can’t believe you got away with that.”

 

He snorted, shoving the pitcher over to Rumlow. “Yeah, neither can I. I think Fury almost went into shock before he decided he could make it work for him.” He watched Brock refill his drink. “You know for all you complained about me ordering sangria you’re drinking it without complaint.”

 

“Gift horses. Still, I am a bit surprised you shot Fury down. You honestly seemed and felt happy, most of the time.”

 

“I was, but things have changed. Yeah it would have been easy to let shit stand, could maybe have even used it to my advantage. But what would that have said about me as command, my being effectively compromised? I wouldn’t be trusted.”

 

“Yeah, but Fury wouldn’t know you broke the leash either.”

 

“I doubt he’s telling anyone. That was honestly why I could do it anyway.” He took a long drink of his sangria, shuddering. “Now most of those happy memories taste like poison.”

 

“Keep to the here and now, boss.”

 

“I know.” Easy enough to focus on, the noise from the beach and the sights, in particular Natasha building a sand castle on top of Clint. “What did you think of working with Captain Rogers?”

 

“Soon to be Commander Rogers? Creepy actually.”

 

That made him pause, looking back at Brock. “Really, why?”

 

“Because it’s too good, it’s too easy, taking orders from him feels as natural as breathing. It’s so easy to just act and trust that he has me and it’s scary to think about after. SHIELD command, I know they might fuck me over. It’s constantly in the back of my head, not so much questioning as second guessing, what aren’t they telling me?”

 

Phil nodded. “I understand that entirely.”

 

“There’s none of that with him. I just fall in and trust. And it’s terrifying.”

 

“But you’re going to punch me if I assign another strike team to him right?”

 

“Yes, without question. My team is first on the list to support Commander Rogers.”

 

He laughed softly and drained his glass. “So a good terrifying then?”

 

“Mix more alcohol with your painkillers, Coulson, let’s see how that works out.”

 

“I’m off the painkillers now. Dick.” He paused when Brock went still and looked past him, catching the flare of worry, dread and resignation that Brock didn’t even realize he had broadcasted. Phil was still getting the hang of his new synergy.

 

“What is he doing here?”

 

He looked at the reflection in Brock’s sunglasses before looking over his shoulder. “Go help turn Clint into a sandcastle. Take your drink with you.”

 

“Are you sure? I’m here on bodyguard duty.”

 

He had to smile a bit. “Go play.”

 

Brock scoffed and flipped him off before vacating his chair to walk down onto the beach, taking his cup with him. Clint and Natasha were both looking back at Phil, aware of the visitor as he walked up.

 

“You’re trouble, Coulson.”

 

“I always have been. Forgive me if I don’t get up, but feel free to take a seat.”

 

Pierce sat, leveling a stare at him. He was wearing high-end resort clothes, trying to fit in and looking a bit uncomfortable about it. “Fury gave me a brief version of your demands.”

 

“I don’t think anything I asked for is unreasonable. I want what a non-dog would get if they got the job.” Phil kept his voice deliberately mild.

 

“That isn’t what I mean. I’d be disappointed if you hadn’t demanded that.” He took a clean glass and poured himself some of the sangria. “I mean demanding your promotion be publicly announced. You’ve never played politics before. Why the interest now?”

 

“Covering my ass, sir. If the public at large knows who I am, it makes it harder for you decide that you don’t like me and demote or disappear me.”

 

He lifted an eyebrow. “You think I’d do that?”

 

Phil stared at him. “I think you’d do whatever necessary to maintain leverage in the agency. Well, so will I, but I intend to use my leverage to look after my own.” He looked back out over the beach, and the agents on the beach. “This isn’t so much politics as survival.”

 

He stood. “I think you’ll find, Coulson, that those are exactly the same thing. You have one week in paradise then I am throwing you into the meat grinder that is the press and public opinion with no small amount of pleasure.”

 

He lifted his glass. “I look forward to it sir.”

 

Pierce just barely smiled, and walked away.

 

* * *

 

 

“That asshole showed up to threaten you?”

 

“Sort of.” Phil sighed, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. “It’s not exactly surprising.”

 

Clint shifted, kneeling behind him on the bed and wrapping both arms around him. “Good point. I guess I would have been worried if someone hadn’t come down to harass us.”

 

He hesitated. “We need to talk.”

 

“We are talking.”

 

“Clint.”

 

Clint pouted and moved to sit next to him, looking at him. “Am I in trouble?”

 

“No. I told you about me and Nick.”

 

“Yeah. I get it. Kind of disappointed I’ll never get to see you two together but I totally get it. It’s skeevy.”

 

“I’m afraid I’m doing the same thing to you.”

 

He blinked. “What?”

 

“I’m pissed with Nick because he never told me how far the conditioning went, and used that to his advantage to continue a sexual relationship with me. You have the same conditioning and I’m now a member of command.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to do that to you. I don’t want you to wake up one day and think I’ve taken advantage of you.”

 

Clint stared at him before laughing and leaning on him. “That’s absurdly sweet of you, but you don’t have to worry about that.”

 

“...Why not? I didn’t realize what was happening for literal decades. It might work the same for you.”

 

“Because I’m not loyal to command. I’m loyal to Captain America.” He watched Phil’s expression and laughed again. “I know right? That is the one good thing Loki did to me. When Nat bashed me back to my senses and Cap walked in a bit later, my brain snapped to him. He has no idea how dangerous he is to SHIELD command because of that. Probably every SHIELD dog could do the same thing, I just had an advantage because my brain was scrambled.”

 

“Holy shit. The implications of what you’re saying…”

 

“I know. Awesome right? And it means that you do not have to have a moral quandary about continuing to fuck my brains out from time to time.” He considered. “Though I guess that does mean I can’t fuck Cap. That’d be weird.”

 

Now Phil laughed, rubbing his face with one hand. “Not into fucking ninety-something year olds?”

 

“Nah. Besides he’s still all sad from the war. It was still, like, almost yesterday to him.”

 

“That reminds me. Stark’s revising his building to accommodate the Avengers. I’m going to transfer you and Nat there.”

 

“WHAT. No.”

 

He booped Clint’s nose. “Both of you will still do work out of the Triskelion, but I refuse to tear apart the team.”

 

Clint pouted. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go live in luxury I guess.”

 

“Good boy.”

 


	21. Chapter 21

Stark was happy to set up a remote hard drive for Phil. Too happy, really, but then he’d already made absolutely clear what he thought of Phil’s options. It was a clever setup though, and bypassed all the usual security on Phil’s SHIELD-issued laptop with disturbing ease (he was still debating whether or not he should report the vulnerability). Once it was set, outlining the book came with surprising ease, making a list of dates and events and some notes about those. Actually starting the book itself proved more difficult.

 

“Yeah I guess that starting to tell the story is the hardest part.” Clint was sprawled on Phil’s hotel bed, naked and unashamed, seeming amused that Phil was using the afterglow of his first orgasm since his near-death to write. “Especially if it’s a story you’ve always been told you can’t tell.”

 

“This isn’t something I ever trained in.” Phil stared at the blank open document and the blinking cursor, taking a slow drink of coffee. “It’s terrible to say, but shooting someone is easier than this.”

 

Clint looked at him. “Sounds like a good first line to me, sir.”

 

He blinked, looking back. “Well what the hell why not. Here I was debating about how in-depth to go into the history of it but fuck it, the history is known.”

 

“To make an apple pie you must first create the universe.” Clint sat up and stretched. “And you aren’t writing a history book, you’re writing a personal narrative. People are going to want the gritty shit that history books try to bleach away until only dry fact remains.”

 

“Good point. You know you don’t have to call me sir when we’re naked.” He was droll, pouring Clint some coffee.

 

“I know, but I need to get back into the habit again. Besides, I don’t mind doing it. You’re my favorite sir.” He scoffed, but smiled. “After all, we have what, two days left here?”

 

“Yes. Then I have to go back and use the rest of my ‘vacation’ to set up my new office and buy a new wardrobe on Fury’s credit card.”

 

He laughed. “Do I get to help buy it?”

 

“Natasha does, she has fashion sense.”

 

“Now you’re just teasing Fury.”

 

“Damn right I am.”

* * *

 

Phil’s first 48 hours after the official, public announcement of the promotion had been very, very busy. There had been plenty of prep, of course. He’d moved to (very nice but still on base) new housing, and an office befitting the new rank. High in one of the Triskelion towers, lots of bulletproof windows, lots of space. He did get to send Natasha shopping with a SHIELD expense card, and now had a new tailored wardrobe which not even Fury questioned. He also got to decorate his office, and took advantage of the space, making sure there’s seating for people visiting, a bit of a den for his dogs as it were.

 

He also kept working on the book as he got the urge. It really was an amazingly subversive, clever program. Rapidly hitting any key three times made the file disappear off his laptop (or desktop, good god Stark) without a trace left in any SHIELD security software. If he did that it would also shuffle the display to something else he had open so he kept something else open that no one would question whenever he wrote. He got very good at naturally making the shift, and was probably fifty pages into his ‘autobiography’ by the time he was officially back from ‘recovery’ and his promotion was announced.

 

SHIELD’s media office was shitstormed for hours with requests for interviews, or an official press conference, or both. He wasn’t going to authorize said press conference, and kicked that can to Fury before looking at the interview requests. All the fervor, the speculation, the opinion articles and live coverage, and a hefty amount of bullshit eventually crested with Time magazine. He felt like an arrogant ass, but who would say no? He did the interview, and opted for an action shot of sorts for the cover. Walking toward the camera in one of his new suits, the motion just enough to show his sidearm.

 

A good political move, Peirce told him on seeing an advance copy. It made him seem like a man of action. Fury said the slight touch of a smile Phil had in the photo (just because the photographer had shown him the blank faced ones and he’d looked like a James Bond villain about to kill said photographer) made him look like a wiseass 80s action hero parody.

 

Clint told him he looked like a sexy cop though, so probably he came out ahead overall.

 

And all of that led him to returning to his new office, talking to Clint and cutting off because he knew he’d left his door locked, but someone was waiting for him, sitting reading an advance copy of Time and drinking his booze.

 

“‘Top Dog’ as the headline. Was that your decision, because I have to say, it seems hopelessly banal.” The man said by way of hello, looking up.

 

“Galahad!” Phil was honestly delighted, coming into the room proper and striding up to him, offering his hand. “You asshole did you break into my office?”

 

Galahad stood and shook his hand, smiling a bit. “Perish the thought. Fury let me in, said you wouldn’t be long.”

 

“Well it’s good to see you anyway.”

 

“Galahad?” Clint wanted to know, having shut the door behind him.

 

“Galahad, this is Agent Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye. Clint, this is Galahad, he’s a Kingsman and if I do know his real name I won’t say it on SHIELD property.”

 

“A pleasure.” He offered his hand to Clint, who was a little thunderstruck.

 

“Is there a Merlin?” Clint shook. “And the pleasure is mine, I’ve heard nothing but high praise for the Kingsmen from Director Coulson.”

 

“Always pleased to know our reputation is high in certain small circles. Yes, there is a Merlin. He’s rather our equivalent of your Tony Stark, except he prefers subtlety and assault rifles.”

 

Clint blinked, and his synergy flared in a way Phil read as ‘I want to party with you.’ “That’s actually terrifying.”

 

“So what brings you to the colonies?” Phil wanted to know, honestly curious.

 

“I do have some other business here, which we had been putting off for a while, but congratulating you on your promotion was a fantastic excuse.”

 

“Well thank you. Are you still in town tonight? I’d love to buy you a drink.”

 

“I will be, and I shall pay for those drinks.” He looked at Clint. “You’re welcome to come as well, of course.”

 

“Thanks, I’d love to. We might bring one more because if you haven’t met the Captain, you should.”

 

“Captain America? I must say I’ve heard much, by all means extend an invitation to him.” He looked to Phil and saluted lightly. “Is the same bar we previously drank at still open?”

 

“It is. Seven tonight?”

 

“I shall be there.” He finished his drink, set the glass lightly on the bar and saw himself out.

 

Clint stared after him, then looked at Phil. “Smooth. Holy shit, so smooth.”

 

“As glass, yes. What do you think?”

 

“No synergy that I could feel, even Natasha has a little I can sense, he had nothing. Strong, holy shit, just from that handshake I would not want to arm wrestle with him. Polished, looks and acts a blue blooded gentleman, but those eyes are all operator.”

 

Phil nodded. “Accurate. He and Lancelot…”

 

“Oh man. Lancelot. Really?”

 

“… Were the first Kingsmen I met, and saw in action. Yes, they all take their non de plumes from the Knights of the Round Table. Their commander is even titled Arthur.”

 

“Small group then.”

 

“Yes, very small, but they’re all true one-man armies. Wrecking crews.”

 

“Actual-factual super soldiers.” Clint guessed. “Past us even.”

 

“SHIELD files don’t say that, but I tend to agree. The Kingsman serum might surpass our attack dog serums. Their agency position is a bit nebulous, I’ve never figured out if they’re British intelligence like MI6 or private. A bit of both, perhaps.”

 

“Huh. I can see why you’d like them.” Clint picked up the magazine. “He’s right though, ‘Top Dog’ is a goddamn bad byline.”

 

Phil laughed. “I didn’t pick it. It’s wrong anyway, Rogers is top dog.”

 

“You should have gone with ‘off the leash.’”

 

“It isn’t in print yet, I’ll call them.”


	22. Chapter 22

“I know that tonight isn’t business but I wanted to ask you something. Make a semi-formal request really, and if I’m crossing a boundary, feel free to tell me to shove it.”

 

Harry lifted an eyebrow, taking a sip of his drink. “Ask it.”

 

“I have the dog program on pause for review as of today. I have some concerns about the loyalty programming. The original basis was personal, but I’ve started collecting data…” Phil sighed, taking a long pull off his beer. “I think the entire thing needs to be retooled, and I was wondering if Kingsman would be willing to share the parameters you use.”

 

He blinked. “Not the exact programming data.”

 

“No, gods no, the Kingsman serum is proprietary and I respect that. I’m hoping for something a bit more general, perhaps a loose overview of process and a parameters flowchart.”

 

Harry was quiet for a few moments, staring out at the bar. Clint and Steve were at the bar itself, discussing what to give Steve next as he couldn’t really get drunk, so it was more about the experience of it all.

 

“It’ll be easier for me to convince upper command that change is vitally necessary if I have a suggestion on how to frame the next serums. It’s about time for a new generation of dog. I want them better off.”

 

“I understand your angle, I think, it just isn’t such an easy thing to do. Certainly it isn’t information I myself am privy to, let alone am authorized to release.” Harry considered. “But, given you aren’t actually asking for specifics, it might be a request Arthur will allow. I’ll bring it to the table when I get home.”

 

“Thank you.” It’s probably one of the more heartfelt thanks he’s ever given.

 

“I can make no promise on delivery.”

 

“I know. But you’ve willing to ask and I appreciate that.”

 

He hummed. “I was to give you a job offer, you know.”

 

Phil had been drinking, and nearly did a spit take. “No. No I did not see that coming. Inviting a Yank dog into the Kingsmen, really?”

 

“News of your near-death made it back to us and we’re aware enough of SHIELD’s rules to know you might be considering retirement. We’d had good experience working with you previously. Bringing you in would have been nothing but positives.”

 

He lifted an eyebrow. “But?”

 

“Then we saw your promotion very publicly announced.” Harry’s look was quizzical. “What are you playing at?”

 

He laughed in spite of himself, offering his glass up to clink to Harry’s tumbler. “That’s my secret.”

 

“You’re not always angry.” Clint sat down by Phil. Steve claimed the forth chair, setting a platter of dumplings onto the center of the table.

 

“No, but I am always up to something.”

 

“That I’ll drink to!” Steve grinned and lifted his glass, and they all clinked their cups.

* * *

 

Phil’s new living arrangements had upsides and downsides. He had a lot more space, which he’d gotten used to fairly easily. He had an actual living room, his own bathroom with shower, and a generous walk-in closet. No kitchen, since he was still in the Triskelion.

 

Which was the downside. While no one had knocked on his door in the morning, people did tend to wait outside his door. This morning was one of those, and he accepted some files from one agent while directing his attention to the dog standing patiently at parade rest. “You’re one of Garrett’s puppies.”

 

“Yes sir. Grant Ward, level six.”

 

He nodded, and started to walk, coffee in one hand and files in the other, not surprised when Ward fell in step. “Garrett send you to suck up to me?”

 

Ward blinked. “Sir?”

 

“We’re friends, but he’s an asshole. I’m sure you agree.” He looked for confirmation and saw the expression of someone who’d dearly like to, but was concerned about the potential consequences. “He hasn’t exactly been subtle. He thinks my new promotion will be advantageous.”

 

“To dogs? Yes sir, I think most of us believe that.” Ward got on the elevator with him.

 

“My office.” The elevator started moving. “So do I, which is why I took the promotion. That doesn’t explain why he sent you to me.”

 

“Why do you think…” Ward started, then stopped when he saw Phil’s face. “He did. He said you need a sniper, since you made Barton’s prime assignment the Avengers.”

 

“Interesting angle.” He stepped off the elevator, handing Ward the files before unlocking his office. “And if I was still a senior field agent, I’d see his point. I’m not, and if I really needed a sniper I could still tell Barton to suit up. There’s no one better.” He set his mug on the desk and took the files back. “So I suppose the question is, why does he think I need a sniper?”

 

Grant signed. “Most of what he told me about you is correct.”

 

“Very likely, yes. Make some coffee.”

 

“I’m not your secretary sir.”

 

“No, but you are a subordinate. And if you make some coffee I might explain why I had hardcopy files on loyalty programming pulled. I saw you looking.”

 

Grant made coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. I'm sorry, I'm working on getting over some intense writer's block on everything.


	23. Chapter 23

“Welcome back, Director Coulson.”

 

Phil stepped onto the elevator of Stark Tower, glancing up automatically. JARVIS’ voice always seemed to drift from above. “Thank you. Am I actually welcome?”

 

“You are, sir.”

 

He had to smile a bit. “Is Stark reading the book as I write it?”

 

“Of course not, sir.”

 

“Are you reading it to him as I write it?”

 

“...I am, sir.”

 

Phil hummed a bit, still smiling a touch. “What does he think, so far?”

 

“He thinks you’ve survived your service life by being absolutely terrifying.”

 

Now that made him laugh as he stepped back off the elevator, smiling when he saw Clint and Natasha sprawled in the common area there. “Afternoon.”

 

“Sir!” Clint hopped up and came over, hugging him without shame. “You didn’t call ahead.”

 

“No, I didn’t, and I didn’t inform anyone I was coming here.” He half smiled, hugging back then releasing him. “I’m going to do something incredibly inadvisable, and I’d like you to come along. Both of you, if you like.”

 

Natasha lifted one eyebrow, just a bit.

 

“Oh, well now you’ve gotten me all curious.” Clint had both eyebrows up. “What kind of inadvisable are we talking?”

 

“I want to get some tattoos.”

 

“I suppose it doesn’t matter if you have identifying marks now.” Natasha said after a beat. “What did you have in mind?”

 

“I want stars on my knees.” He saw her look and smiled. “Yes. Prison style tattoos. I find it appropriate, don’t you?”

 

“I’m not that familiar with that kind of lingo. Didn’t really do any time. I know teardrop tattoos show you murdered someone?” Clint hazarded.

 

“Stars on his knees means he kneels to no one.” Natasha hummed. “It’s meant to command respect, and show defiance.”

 

“Ohh. I like it, boss. Did you have a place in mind?”

 

“I do actually. Coming with me?”

 

“Of course we are! And if you’re getting tattoos I’m getting one too.”

 

That surprised Phil a bit. “Really, of what?”

 

“Hell, I don’t know, I’m sure I’ll find something I like.”

 

“You are equally fools.” Natasha sounded nothing but fond. “And I am coming along, because I want to bear witness to this foolishness.”

 

“I’ll feed you both after.” Phil promised.

 

“That’s an added bonus. I’ll drive, come on boys.”

 

* * *

 

Phil, of course, had done his research and found a nice shop that took cash and seemed unlikely to ask any questions. The place was clean, neat, and artsy. Clint and Natasha ended up in the books of tattoos, apparently trying to find something increasingly ridiculous to tattoo onto Clint, and Phil ended up in the chair with his suit pants cuffed up to shorts length (he’d chosen this suit specifically because it had enough room to do that).

 

The tattoo artist, a woman with full sleeves (anime style, high color), seemed to immediately know that Phil’s asking for prison code tattoos and regards him with open curiosity, but also doesn’t ask, probably because he exactly fits what most people think organized crime looks like. After some discussion, Phil also floats the idea of a tattoo under his collarbone on his left side, the dog shield and his dog ID number, and she clearly realizes what’s going on.

 

“So, I have to ask. Do you have any health... differences that are going to affect the tattooing process?” She asked, showing him different star designs.

 

“That’s actually very possible.” He admitted, thoughtful. “I might actively heal as it’s being done, I might not. This is a first, and there’s not much literature on dogs being tattooed, so I can’t answer on that basis either.” Not that he could use it, with the entire pack’s worth of serums in his body (with Cap’s serum firmly in control, but still not the only one that shows on a panel). He shifted, looking at Clint and Natasha. “Classic star design, or the star from Cap’s shield?”

 

“Well, the star from Cap’s shield is going to be a really basic outline, boss.” Clint pointed out. “I get what you’re thinking by considering that, but I also think something like a compass star could add some additional meaning to it.”

 

He looked back at the designs and the tattoo artist pointed out compass stars, a few of them. “Very good suggestion, thank you. What are you thinking?”

 

“It’s either going to be an arrow, like, laced through my skin, or a piece of pizza.”

 

Phil smiled a touch, looking at the stars and indicating one of the compass stars and making a size gesture. “Nothing huge, but obvious and clear.”

 

“Black and white?”

 

“Yes, let’s keep with the aesthetic.” He agreed, and she nodded, grabbing transfer paper.

 

“If we’re going to tattoo you guys and that’s not a thing done I feel like we shouldn’t be putting flash art on any of you.” A pierced guy tattooist was leaning on the front counter, watching Clint and Natasha go through the books. “I mean, I think I get the stars thing. Ballsy. But you, you seem like the ‘Mickey Mouse on your ass’ type.”

 

Phil guffawed in spite of himself, but Clint just blinked at him. “Well, you aren’t entirely wrong I guess. Not that I actually want Mickey Mouse.”

 

“No, I mean, you’re the guy to have a tattoo that defies explanation because there’s no reason you actually have it. At least let me draw something for you so it’s original art.”

 

“I dunno. We got time for that boss?”

 

Phil was settled in the chair, watching his artist line the stars up. “I don’t see why not.”

 

“Awesome.”

 

Clint ended up sitting at a drawing desk with the artist he was working with, bouncing ideas off each other. Natasha curled up with a book in an empty chair and Phil relaxed, watching the process curiously. The needles don’t hurt, in fact he barely feels them, he more feels the vibration. It’s interesting, actually.

 

“Basically no one will see those.” Clint said, looking at him. “I mean I’m getting one on my arm so everyone’s going to see it. You’re always in long pants.”

 

“Which is fine. If Pierce knew about this he’d lose his shit anyway. Even though I’m using my own funds for this, thank you very much.” Phil snorted. “Speaking of funds, I am looking into buying some property and building a retreat. SHIELD has one for staff already, but, I’m thinking a place mainly for dogs might be nice. Their choice where to go of course.”

 

“Actually yeah, that might be really nice. SHIELD places are always really sterile and corporate.” Clint’s nose wrinkled. “We need a lodge.”

 

“Opinion noted. I agree.”

 

“You are healing as I do this.” Phil’s artist had the gun lifted, watching the line she had just inked scab over immediately. “You’ll still need to do tattoo aftercare, but at this rate they’ll be completely healed in a few days.”

 

“Is my body pushing the ink back out?”

 

“I don’t think so. At least, not yet. This is really interesting.” She went back to work. “Do you think we’ll get more supersoldiers in here after you two?”

 

“That’d be sweet.” Clint’s artist said, showing a drawing to Clint.

 

Clint perked up and nodded. “Yeah, that one. I like it.”

 

“What did you decide on?” Natasha got up and came over, and smiled at it. “You sap.”

 

“You love me. This bicep okay?” He indicated his bow arm.

 

“Of course. Hop on the chair, I can just draw this on you.”

 

“What did you decide on?” Phil doesn’t move any more than turning his head, and Natasha took the binder and brought it over to indicate the drawing. It’s very simple, a black outline of three arrows bundled together with a bow, the fletchings in purple, red, and gray. “Natasha’s right, you are a sap. I love it.”

 

Clint beamed at him. “What can I say, I love you two best.”

 

* * *

 

By the time they were all sat at a table, getting pizza because of course they were, both of their tattoos were mostly healed. Phil’s itched and he was steadfastly ignoring it, Clint’s was on its third coat of lotion and looking like it was about to need a forth.

 

“Did you really think the ink would come right back out?” Clint wanted to know, looking at the menu because Natasha had insisted on a decent Italian restaurant instead of a hole in the wall pizza joint. “You’ll like it here boss the pizza is green.”

 

Phil snorted. “Yes, I had some concerns about it. Notoriously dog bodies tend to try to kick out anything non-native. That said there’s no clear record of SHIELD dogs being tattooed since the first gen and that wasn’t voluntary.”

 

“Did someone explain to those people we’re the ones who fight against the Nazis?”

 

“Eventually. Thank you both for coming along with me.”

 

“I think we’ll help with any way you want to rebel.” Natasha smiled at him a touch.

 

“And if you don’t want to kneel I happily will. I mean, for you, not for Pierce or anything good god.” Clint shuddered.

 

“How did you put those statements back to back. I can’t even contemplate the first statement because the second ruined it.” Phil complained.

 

“Yeah, I don’t know why my mind went there.” Clint shook off. “Offer stands.”

 

“You’re both idiots. I suppose it’s good you two can be idiots together.” Natasha looked between them, almost rolling her eyes.

 

Neither of them even tried to argue with her about it.


	24. Chapter 24

“You were seen walking into Stark Tower.”

 

Phil looked up from his screen, eying Fury. “Leave the door open.”

 

Nick did, walking in fully and sitting down across from him. “Did you hear me?”

 

“Yes and I don’t know why that’s surprising. The visitor log is public knowledge, and the tower is watched.”

 

He grunted. “This was one issue with you going public. Now you’re recognized, largely by people who cannot be described as friendly press.”

 

“You never concern yourself with press.”

 

“That’s because Dogs don’t get singled out for press.” Nick countered.

 

“We haven’t been a bad secret for years, and I’m not trying to hide. Half the point of going public was making us more accessible, through me. So we’re less of a boogeyman.” Phil picked up his coffee. “Why the concern? Who’s bitching I was at Stark Tower? It’s pretty public that Barton’s a Dog, I was likely seen leaving with Barton and Romanov. We got lunch.”

 

“The usual gossip sites, and a group called the Rising Tide.”

 

He blinked once. “Rising Tide. Similar vein as Anon, right, but also completely different.”

 

Nick snorted. “Exactly, yes, and apparently they had someone close physically there, close enough to get fantastic pictures of you. Nice suit by the way.”

 

“JARVIS hooked me up with Stark’s tailor.” Phil looked back at his computer, closing what he had been working on and after a moment just googling ‘Rising Tide.’ “Are we watching this group?”

 

“Not really. FBI likely is, police might be. There’s accusations of credit card fraud and so on to pay their operating fees.”

 

“How grass roots.” He hummed, scrolling. “Those are good pictures of me, I’m going to retweet them.”

 

Nick stared at him. “You have a public twitter.”

 

“Public and verified.” He hummed, retweeting the photos with a compliment on the photographer. “There, that should cause amusing fallout.”

 

Nick had his face in his hands, but was smiling a little when he dropped them. “Listen to their audio, you’ll love it.”

 

He scoffed, found it and clicked, sitting back. “Oh good lord she sounds about twenty.” After a few minutes of listening, he looked at Nick. “Now tell me why you care about this.”

 

“We’re getting rumblings of a coyote project in New York City. Looks like it has its roots in stolen Dog data, in particular AIM.”

 

“Oh god fucking dammit, we are still cleaning that mess up.” He groaned, sitting back. “I protest that even being called a coyote project let alone a dog project.”

 

“You get my point. That particular member of the Rising Tide might be tied to the new coyotes.” Nick stood. “Find her, find them, shut it down.”

 

“Right. Someone in intel working this?”

 

“They should be sending you the related data.” He paused, one hand on the back of the chair. “I miss you, you know.”

 

“I’m two meters away from you, point blank range.” Phil stared at him. “Do you miss me? Or do you miss taking advantage of me?” He watched Nick’s face. “Yes. I’m still angry. I’m taking this grudge to my grave. Get out of my office.”

 

He looked at him a moment, then nodded, and did.

 

* * *

 

Calling AIM a clusterfuck was a disservice to the term.

 

At first it had been a few different things, not yet connected. Some explosions in the US, labeled terrorist attacks. Maya Hansen, long-monitored, suddenly getting harder to track. Money in Washington moving in a way to raise alarm with the Secret Service, who requested SHIELD and didn’t entirely expand on that choice (why not FBI?). Disconnected data, until Pepper Potts called saying she met with Aldrich Killian and his proposal had scared her, and Stark had made the suggestion to call it in.

 

Pott’s story was enough to trigger further investigation, with SHIELD rapidly inviting the FBI to the party, then notifying the military when it looked like vets were in play. Stark broke some computer security laws (probably) and dropped them financial data that triggered a massive multi-agency, multi-state raid, which had basically been preauthorized when shit had blown up in LA.

 

The fallout? A lot of agents suffering burns. AIM’s assets frozen and seized, and many employees in custody. Maya Hansen in custody. Aldrich Killian in custody at the Raft, along with a collection of AIM coyotes. The Vice President, arrested and charged with various conspiracies. The list when on.

 

Clusterfuck. But, curiously successful, given the masterplan apparently included offing Tony Stark and kidnaping the President. Commendations were still being handed out.

 

SHIELD, being the Weird Shit ™ experts, had all of AIM’s data and live serum samples, and some fresh holes blown in various labs. The testimony of some of the AIM coyotes regarding blowing up spontaneously likely was keeping SHIELD command from pushing aspects of the AIM serum from being incorporated in the next SHIELD Dog gen… for now.

 

Phil had made sure a fairly comprehensive brief went out to the press in the wake of it all, trying to head off speculation that had exploded when the Vice President had been taken into custody. So now, at least most of the headlines had grains of truth. He also authorized their press office to brief one of their spokespeople thoroughly so they could go on TV shows.

 

It was still a mess, likely years of investigating and trials ahead, so to hear there was already another coyote program potentially using aspects of AIM’s research? Concerning, to put it mildly, especially since Nick had put this specifically into his hands. He’s command staff, he could see being handed something to consider and putting together and briefing a team, but Nick had told him to do it (or at least personally oversee it?). Which meant Nick was worried. Which meant Phil was worried. And he was less than thrilled with the idea that his best potential intel source was a twenty-something internet anarchist.

 

So he grabbed Ward and went back to Stark Tower, not trying to hide, and found Clint and Natasha. “Hey. This is Ward. Want to help take aggressive custody of a potentially hostile informant?”

 

“Does that actually mean kidnap someone who knows shit we need to know? That’s what it sounded like.” Tony asked, sticking his head up from presumably laying on the couch.

 

“Well. Yes.” Phil agreed, making Ward stare and Natasha snort.

 

“Why not offer them money, that always works for me. Well almost always.”

 

Phil considered briefly, then half-smiled. “Actually I think she’s just your flavor, Stark, want in on this madness?”

 

“Sure, why not, who is she?” Tony stood and cracked his back.

 

“JARVIS, is Rising Tide broadcasting right now?” He glanced upward.

 

“Rising Tide? Really? Those script kiddies?” Tony scoffed, then the broadcast started playing overhead and he listened briefly. “Sassy. She does not like you.”

 

“I know, I’m all heartbroken about it. She might have information on a coyote program that may or may not be an AIM copycat.”

 

“I’ve located her, sir, she’s not far away, broadcasting from a car.” JARVIS announced.

 

“Well that was fast.” Ward blinked.

 

“She is skimming our Wi-Fi, sir.”

 

“Ooohh! Cheeky monkey. Okay, I’m grabbing her, scary agents stay put.” Tony grinned and headed for the elevator.

 

“Is this a good idea?” Ward looked at Phil.

 

“It isn’t the worst one. She’ll probably respond better to him than us. She’s a hacker with strong anarchy information-must-be-free leanings, he’s as famous computer genius and some kind of libertarian.” He shrugged. “Coffee while we wait?”

 

“Absolutely sir, but is he supposed to be my replacement?” Clint was eyeballing Ward, who looked a bit uncomfortable.

 

“He wishes. He’s one of John’s puppies.”

 

“Oh you poor bastard. Yeah okay fine, I guess you can have some of Tony’s amazing coffee too.”

 

* * *

 

When the elevator dinged open, Tony coming out trailing a twenty-something Asian-American talking a mile a minute, they were all still standing loosely in the kitchen area with cups of coffee. Natasha poured two more with no prompting as the talking abruptly stopped, the woman stopping as well and taking a step back, only to run into the iron bar of Tony’s raised arm.

 

“You want to deal with me you talk to them.” Tony told her flatly.

 

“But that’s…”

 

“Coulson. Yes. Who actually is not an asshole. Coulson, this is Skye.”

 

“Why are you lying?” Phil wanted to know with half a smile, prompting Clint to punch his shoulder, taking a few steps forward still holding his coffee. “Skye, hm? You caught the attention of upper command. If you deal with me, you don’t have to deal with them.”

 

“They’re the real assholes. Take the deal.” Clint said, giving Tony his coffee. Ward gave Skye hers.

 

“What do you want to know?” She side-eyed him, accepting the coffee.

 

“Everything you know about a coyote project happening locally.”

 

“Coyote. That’s your slang for non-government super soldier right?”

 

“Yes. Our intel suggests it’s called Project Centipede.” He watched her face. “If you know anything you need to tell us. AIM sucked.”

 

“You’re just great at tact, aren’t you?”

 

“That’s a Coulson thing, not a dog thing. If it’ll motivate you, we’ll answer questions you have.”

 

That got her attention, and she grabbed a bar stool. “I have a friend involved, I don’t want him hurt.”

 

“Done. Now talk.”


	25. Chapter 25

“You know, Coulson, I’ve stayed hands-off so far since your promotion.”

 

Phil looked up from his computer screen, already standing, and blinked once. “What made you take the long ride down the elevator, sir?”

 

Pierce walked into his office, trailed by John, who seemed to be trying to signal behind Pierce that this was not his fault, not that Phil entirely believed it. “Well, seems we have a potential coyote project in New York and you left our one potentially good intel source with Tony Stark.”

 

“He has more leverage over her. We have none, we would have basically been pushed to blackmail. Tony Stark meanwhile is the physical manifestation of her God, very little hyperbole there.” Phil shrugged. “If he hasn’t completely dismantled the Rising Tide by the end of this week while making them think it’s a great idea, I’ll be stunned.”

 

“And you left Agent Ward there.”

 

“I needed a current SHIELD asset to keep an eye on the situation. He was immediately available. Got him out from underfoot, and he can polish his skills with Barton.” By the expressions of Pierce and John, Ward was supposed to be underfoot. Phil had zero remorse. “Honestly sir, I don’t see how this is enough for you to come see me in person. I’ve only moved a handful of personnel onto this and honestly, we don’t have hard evidence yet.” He considered Pierce, feeling John’s synergy flare with worry and unease.

 

‘Yet’ was an operative word. Skye’s involved friend, a man named Mike, was supposedly going to talk to them soon. Phil had transferred two new science division techs to New York, under instructions to read up on the AIM coyotes and be prepared to branch off on that as any intel on Centipede came in. He also had a desk Dog digging through intel, looking for finances that might be tied to Centipede via AIM. A spare handful of people, no resources so far and even less hard data.

 

“You’re right, and normally I wouldn’t be this involved. I’d read an abstract and move on.” Pierce conceded. “But AIM happened, and that was significant. The political impact alone hasn’t been fully seen. Coyote projects are getting bolder, better financed, and better made.” He considered Phil, deadly serious. “AIM coyotes almost beat SHIELD Dogs, did beat us, really. We are losing this arms race to civilian projects, and Centipede is another potential indicator of that. We are behind the curve.”

 

Phil took a moment to weigh his words. “First of all, if you’ve returned to the thinking of early gen Dogs, that we are a weapon in an arms race, not loyal agents making a sacrifice for duty, then I am completely comfortable with pulling the plug on the Dog project, for good.” He paused to let that sink in. “And, to be clear, I am quite aware that this organization failed to fully inform the last Dog generations of the impact of the programming.”

 

“That’s why you have the project under review for a new generation.” Pierce reflected. “It’s good timing, we need to update the serums. Which you also know, given you got us a rather fascinating file from the Kingsman coyotes.”

 

He almost corrected Pierce, but refrained. “Which is my next point. I know that the abilities shown by the AIM coyotes are tempting to try to fold into our serums, to try to ‘win the arms race,’” he finger quoted, “but the downsides are dramatic and violent, and we don’t yet understand how the programming of extremis works. I know it’s always been the dream of SHIELD command to have a personal army of Captain Americas, but the AIM serum will not get us there.”

 

“That’s opinion. Extremis, from an outside view, looks like a miracle.” John pointed out. “The regeneration alone…”

 

“Shut up, Garrett.” Phil said quietly, and was rewarded with instant silence. “It isn’t regeneration or advanced healing, not in a ‘traditional’ Captain America sense, it’s something else.”

 

Pierce claimed a chair, sitting across from Phil and looking at him until he also sat. “Killian calls it regeneration. I’ve spoken to him at the Raft.”

 

“Killian is a madman. He’s bright, but he is stone cold insane, and he is the bankroll. You should have spoken to Hansen.” Phil took a drink of his coffee, opening a file on his computer. “Hansen has used the word ‘regeneration’ but has also used ‘restoration’ and ‘overwrite’ while describing Extremis. The difference in implication is significant.”

 

“Implication or not, the end result is the same. Super soldiers who can regenerate on the fly.”

 

“You’d think that but Killian used injured veterans, which means we have their military files to compare against. Those that did survive the procedure are now completely different people. Note I said people, not human. Extremis rewrites the human genome, and as near as we can parse from AIM’s files and our own examination of AIM’s victims, rewrites the brain.” When they just looked at him, he gestured with both hands. “Haven’t you two seen Gattica?”

 

“Oh. Now I see where you’re going with this.” Pierce’s eyes widened briefly. “It’s potentially not just a serum boost for the receiver, it might breed true.”

 

“Right, creating the potential for a custom ‘better’ kind of human. You want incalculable implications, sir? I give you Extremis. Could we end up a disease free peaceful world with super soldiers on standby for off world threats? No, because look at our elected officials. The top five percent will upgrade and propagate, and use the soldiers as a boot on the neck of those not upgraded. We can. Not. Let. This project continue.”

 

There was a long silence, and Pierce stood. “We can’t let the Dogs get their ass kicked by coyotes, either. That will signal worldwide that we’re weak.”

 

“The world can judge us when they stop calling us to handle strange threats, sir.” Phil shrugged. “And if it’s really bad, we can back up the Avengers.”

 

He eyed Phil, nodded once, and left the office.

 

The moment the door shut behind him, John rubbed his face with both hands then stared at Phil. “You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy, talking to him like that.”

 

“I’m command staff, which means I have the right to give him my honest opinion. I did.”

 

“You think you told him something he didn’t want to hear?”

 

Phil shrugged, picking up his coffee again before a chill went through him, going over John’s question again before reaching out to snag John’s synergy. “Expand on that.”

 

John balked, skittering away from the connection. “First off, fuck off with your creepy ass zombie synergy.”

 

He blinked. “What.”

 

“I know your serum is dead. I know that because mine is nearly dead and has been for years. I haven’t been fully retired because I’m a mean sumbitch. So your synergy isn’t you, it’s Captain America filtering through a dozen ghosts, and it’s gross as hell.”

 

“… Well. No one’s told me that before this, maybe it’s just you.”

 

“Oh please, Barton would fellate your tombstone so he’s not going to say a thing, and you’re scary command so everyone else won’t either.” He sat, not in the chair Pierce had been in. “I told you, someone has to bust your ego down to size, that’s me.”

 

“Glad to know you’re still a dick.”

 

“Always and forever.”

 

“Extremis isn’t going to save your service life, John.”

 

He pointed at Phil. “Fuck you.”

 

“No. Now explain what you meant.”

 

He groaned. “You think Pierce is turned off by the idea of a self-replicating genetically superior army? Hell no he isn’t, he just knows he can’t away with it.”

 

“Well we can’t always get what we want.”

 

“He’ll damn well try. They spent this many years subverting us without telling us, this would just be one more step down the slippery slope.”

 

“I’ll keep an eye on it.” He sighed. “We’re getting old.”

 

“Yeah. We are. Rogers will outlast us all.”

 

“Good. Now what’s your opinion on Kentucky?”

 

 

That night, Phil opened the stealth file that was his book, and after a moment highlighted ‘title placeholder,’ removing it in favor of ‘My Life As A Weapon.’


	26. Chapter 26

Skye led them to Los Angeles, and Phil sent Ward, the two techs (Fitz and Simmons, already very versed in AIM’s files), and Rumlow’s strike team. He’s glad he did in the end, though Skye had informed him over video call that it was overkill, Mike wasn’t hostile. True, the rest of the mess however…

 

“They’re gone. We kicked in the door of an empty office.” Rumlow told him via facetime, turning the video feed so Phil could see. “Files and computers are gone. They got wise.”

 

“Peterson?”

 

“He and his kid are safe on the quinjet. Someone wanted him silenced, though, we’ve stopped one assassination attempt for sure, and maybe prevented another. We’re going to check for fingerprints then let local forces take over.”

 

“Understood.”

 

“Oh, and sir? Peterson has synergy.”

 

He about choked. “Repeat that for me?”

 

“Mike Peterson has synergy. He is on the network. He sucks at it, but he hears us, we hear him.”

 

He sat back. “Shit.”

 

“Has any coyote been able to do that sir?”

 

“No. Finish there and bring him back with you. I need him to testify on record.”

 

“Understood sir.”

 

“Call me when you’re wheels up.” Phil hung up, rubbed his eyes, and opened one of his locked desk drawers, getting a binder out. The trouble with SHIELD was, if he started a file to log his paranoia it’d be noticed, and he didn’t want to have it on Stark’s ghost drive either. So, paper it was, and he tried not to think of it as the concerned scrawling of a conspiracy theorist. That said, he was done considering anything a coincidence.

 

He was keeping track of what Dogs told him his synergy was ‘creepy.’ It was maybe twenty percent of those he’d polled, so far, and few of them had ever been ‘close’ to him. John. Jasper (“You’re just… grey, winter sky grey, I can’t understand you through my synesthesia”). Most of Rumlow’s strike team, Rumlow himself was on the fence, describing Phil’s synergy as “cold, but not unbearable.” So what was the connection? A larger portion of the Dogs, by far, saw no issue with his synergy though many admitted it was different than before (he was louder, more clear, especially to groups). It wasn’t specific to serum batches, he’d checked that first.

 

It was specific to recruiter or sponsor. That he had figured out. Most of those reacting poorly had come through the same handful of recruiters or sponsors, which was alarming, even if he wasn’t sure what the implication was. He was going to ask Ward about his synergy when the quinjet returned, just to see if he also followed that pattern.

 

Of course, another option was that they were all lying to him so he would politely not try to synergize with them, unless it was a combat situation. Which was just as alarming.

 

And now there was Mike Peterson, coyote with synergy, part of the Centipede Project… which was Extremis. FitzSimmons had confirmed that, and SHIELD labs were working to reconfirm it. Centipede was a more stable Extremis. Not totally stable, but the work was obvious.

 

They had no proof of collusion between Centipede and AIM. None of AIM’s employees recognized the project name and all vehemently denied participating in industrial espionage. Sharing project data would have undermined their own profit: basically all of AIM’s employees had been shareholders. There was no computer evidence of important files being copied or transferred (credit to Killian, their network security had been quite good).

 

So, odds were pointing away from AIM leaking to Centipede. He’d even gone and spoke to Hansen yesterday, who was shocked to hear another company had potentially started to stabilize her project. She had accused SHIELD of a variety of crimes then demanded to see Centipede’s data. He’d conceded it was her intellectual property, and agreed to try to get her the files in exchange for her read on them. She agreed.

 

Of course all of this only really left one other option. He updated his notes, locked up the binder, and reached for his phone. “Fury. We need to take a walk.”

 

* * *

 

SHIELD was bugged. Even Phil’s office (likely especially his office), and probably his quarters (sometimes he got himself off noisily just to make potential listeners that much more uncomfortable). Common public gathering spots in DC? Likely bugged by various alphabet agencies. So if you wanted to talk privately, you found a crowd to walk with.

 

“I have to say, this is a lot of trust you’re putting in me all of the sudden.” Nick had taken his overcoat off in deference to not looking like a Matrix extra, walking with Phil toward donuts and coffee.

 

“Don’t make me regret it. Is something going on?”

 

“You’re have to be more specific. We’re building new helicarriers, Cap is back in Stark Tower, coyotes are everywhere and that’s just the iceberg’s tip.”

 

Phil made a note to add the helicarrier trio to his binder. “Okay, blunter. Are we facing an internal coup?”

 

Nick stopped and looked at him. Phil looked back. “Did you find something?”

 

“Not enough to start shooting at people. I have found a series of alarming coincidences, and either I am very paranoid, or SHIELD is splitting into factions without us realizing.”

 

Nick got them walking again. “You’re a lot of things, Coulson, but crazy has never been one of them. Run it for me.”

 

So he did. The Dogs telling him his synergy was gross. The Centipede mess. And, his bitter conclusions. “I think someone in command wants Extremis, stable and weaponized. I think they know they can’t use SHIELD labs. I think they leaked a lot of AIM’s very proprietary shit to another lab to do that work, and now we have Centipede. I think a fair portion of the Agency is aware.” He’s speaking quiet and clear, using his coffee to mask how his lips are moving, in case they’re being watched. “If any or all of this is accurate, then this is not a recent development. That shadow faction is using established channels to hide shit from those outside the loop.”

 

Nick chewed his donut slowly, obviously following ever word and was silent for several moments. “Shit. This might line up with my own suspicions.”

 

“Anything solid?”

 

“No, just unease and some weird things, nonsensical shit. We’ve heard noise that a terrorist group is looking into satellite launching, for example. We’ve seen activity at some old AXIS properties in Europe. We have the former vice president’s records, and he was talking to some parties we haven’t been able to name yet, but it looks like AIM’s plan might have been part of something bigger. Oh, and some crazy rich asshole is talking about making cell phone service free worldwide, which seems suspicious as hell.”

 

They looked at each other for a long silent moment.

 

“You need to keep Mike Peterson alive. Send him to Stark Tower. If you’re right about any of this he’s the best current proof you have, and part of SHIELD might be a threat to him.”

 

“Understood and agreed. Your opinion, does Peirce want Extremis?”

 

“He has told me himself the ideal next Dog generation will have it, and told me you cited a sci fi movie in your passionate argument against it, his words. I knew you probably cited Gattica, I took your side and told him using Extremis is not ideal. Would he want it so badly he would go outside SHIELD? That, I’m not certain about.”

 

“He did try to nuke New York.”

 

“Be fair: the entirety of the Council tried to nuke New York, which I made every effort to stop, up to shooting down one of my own damn planes, personally. Instead they gave Tony Stark dramatically worse PTSD and a minor space phobia.”

 

“Assholes.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“So what’s your move, here?” Anything Fury did was going to change Phil’s trajectory and he knew it.

 

“I don’t think we have one, yet. Get Peterson safe and get staff that don’t think you’re creepy hunting down Centipede. I’ll authorize any personnel transfers you make.”

 

“Rumlow’s strike team might be in on it, and they want to stay close to Cap. Now that I’m saying that, it sounds a lot more potentially sinister, pardon the word. They may actually be there to hamper him. Or monitor him, and frankly we’re better off keeping Rogers as far from our monitoring as we can. Dog reasons.”

 

Nick groaned into his coffee. “We can’t transfer them without it looking suspicions. Keep an eye on their missions. Rogers is smart, a lot of people forget that.”

 

“True.” Phil picked up his donut, watching cars go by. “What are the odds we’re right?”

 

“I’m giving it sixty-forty against.”

 

“Still too high.”

 

“Yeah, look at the scope of what we’ve talked about. You have a plan, right?”

 

He looked back to Fury. “I don’t know yet. I’m certainly trying to shift my position to something favorable but it’s hard to move without being noticed.”

 

“No shit. What’s in Kentucky?”

 

He didn’t bat an eye. “Nothing yet. Is this a hint to play my cards closer to my chest?”

 

“Might be. Anything I can do to put a card in that hand?”

 

That gave Phil pause. “Actually to mix some metaphors, I could use your help removing a pawn from play entirely. I want someone off the map, safe, without SHIELD knowing.”

 

“Huh, really. Did you have someone specific in mind?”

 

“Yeah, just a guy rotting in jail because we fucked him over by asking him to help us out with some black bag ops.”

 

Nick groaned. “Are you really feeling guilt over that asshole?” When Phil just stared, he sighed. “Wow, okay. I hope when this shit falls out I’m alive to see what machinations you’ve pulled off, because I’m intrigued. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“Thanks. Interesting times ahead.”

 

“Don’t fucking curse us further, Coulson.”

 


	27. Chapter 27

“You know, Agent, I’d joke about you owing me big time for this. Big time. Huge. But I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

 

Phil didn’t bat an eye. “You’ve all but moved to New York. Asking to stash an asset here for a bit is hardly going to put you out of your way.”

 

“It’s who it is. Justin Hammer, an asset? To whom?” Tony scoffed.

 

“My plans are my secret. He’s only in jail before of SHIELD’s negligence, I’m fixing it.”

 

“Off the books apparently? Sending Clint all but in disguise?” He wanted to know. “And hiding him here? Come on, man. How the hell is it your fault?”

 

“SHIELD Black Book op. Someone, not me, decided they wanted Vanko and didn’t want to try extradite him. That would raise questions. So SHIELD broke him out of jail, and Justin Hammer stood in as the guy pretending he did that. He was allowed to use his combat suits as a reason because it made sense, and it might have gotten the intel command wanted.”

 

Tony blinked once. “Then he became the fall guy. Shit, yeah okay, that’s dirty. So you’re getting him out, not publicly or via command, to prevent furtherance of this cluster fuck.”

 

“Right.”

 

“He’s still an asshole.”

 

“So are you. Now what are you concerned about?”

 

He huffed and picked up his coffee. “Valentine and his free cell phone service.”

 

“I’m skeptical myself.”

 

“No man, I’m digging into it, he doesn’t have the infrastructure. JARVIS, pull it up?”

 

Phil stepped back as the lab filled with holographs, the globe with a satellite network filling in around it. “We have security concerns. All cell traffic funneling through a central carrier has nightmarish wiretap potential.”

 

“If he could pull it off, he can’t. I’ve been making phone calls. These satellites all carry cell phone service, right? These red ones belong to Valentine.” Tony turned the map, showing Phil. “I’ve been talking to other carriers; they’re already working on plans to deny his traffic unless he pays for the use. He’s made no real overtures to do that. If even half the users switch, his network drowns.”

 

He blinked. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to miss that. That isn’t a small detail.”

 

“Right, and look at how these are set up. He hasn’t got global coverage, not all at once anyway.”

 

“Strange.”

 

“I’m trying to get my hands on a SIM card from him. I want to take a look at it. This stinks.”

 

“I’m inclined to agree. I haven’t gotten any intel…” He got his phone out, and blinked when it rang, Clint’s number coming up for video call. “That was fast.” He picked up. “Barton, how did it go?”

 

“Uh, slight change of plans, boss.” Clint replied, glancing at the phone, then up.

 

“Are you driving while facetiming me?”

 

“I’m at a light, relax. So uh.” He put the feed over his shoulder, showing a flummoxed looking Justin Hammer in the suit he’d been in the night at the Expo, and a younger man in jeans and a polo. “Got a two for one special.”

 

“… and you still got out clean?”

 

“We’re ghosts man, I wasn’t there, this never happened.” Clint assured him.

 

“What the fuck is going on?” Justin wanted to know, and got elbowed by the other guy. “I mean, thanks? For getting us out? But why the spy shit?”

 

Phil rubbed his eyes. “What’s your favorite drink?”

 

“What? Alcoholic you mean? Uh, a Cosmopolitan, why?”

 

“Congratulations, your codename is Cosmopolitan. We aren’t saying your name over the phone. See you in a few hours.” Phil hung up. “What the shit.”

 

Tony was laughing. “Who’s the other guy?”

 

“I have no idea.” He really didn’t.

 

“Cosmopolitan, really?”

 

“Would you like a code name? … Don’t answer that.”

 

“Too late. Can I be Crossfade?”

 

Phil ignored that, shuffling his contact list. “Valentine spends a lot of time overseas, right? Europe?”

 

“Hell I don’t know; we don’t party together.” He saw the look. “I mean, he’s made overtures since I switched to green tech, but he’s, look I’ve been busy being Iron Man.”

 

“Right.” Phil dialed, waiting through six rings patiently.

 

“Coulson. You caught me at a somewhat inopportune time.”

 

“Sorry, Galahad. This is off the record, just following a friend’s concern. Should I call back?”

 

“Galahad?” Tony stared.

 

“Well, if it’s off the record that’s fine then. I’m honestly a bit laid up at the moment. Can I ask who’s with you?”

 

“Tony Stark.”

 

There was a pause. “Can I put you on video?”

 

“Sure.” Phil shifted to look at his phone as the call shifted to video, leaving him considering Galahad in a robe, a hospital bed in the background, and a bald nebbish man leaning into the feed.

 

“Okay this is crap, JARVIS, put his call on the big screen.” Tony decided, and Phil’s screen went black in favor of the call shifting to the largest lab screen. “Welcome to my private lab, gentlemen, who are you exactly?”

 

“I’m Agent Galahad, and this is Agent Merlin. He’s in charge of our tech among other things.”

 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Tony observed, looking at Phil.

 

“They’re Kingsman Agents.”

 

He blinked, looking back to the video feed. “Not just tailors, understood, mum’s the word. Do you have any dirt on Valentine?”

 

Galahad and Merlin looked at each other, then to Phil. “This conversation stays between us.”

 

“Of course gentlemen, it’s all off record. But if there are leads to pursue I may start a more official investigation.”

 

“Of course. My injury was gained while attempting to investigate an ally to Valentine.”

 

Phil frowned, because shit, Valentine managed to injure a Kingsman super soldier?

 

“Okay so he is skeezy? Because tech side his free phone thing doesn’t make any sense. What’s he up to?” Tony wanted to know.

 

“We aren’t certain, yet.” Merlin admitted. “Investigation is still ongoing. It’s safe to say it isn’t about phones. We’ve already lost one of our own.”

 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Phil bowed his head slightly. “I know you’re a small pack, any loss must be bitterly felt.”

 

“It was.” Galahad agreed.

 

“Can I have your contact info, Merlin?” Tony wanted to know. “I’m going to keep digging, might be good for us to share.”

 

“It might. Do you have a space worthy Iron Man suit, Mr. Stark?”

 

He blinked. “Depends how space worthy you want it. Orbit, the moon, what?”

 

“Satellites, actually.”

 

“I can have something ready for spotlights inside forty-eight hours.” Tony assured him.

 

“Splendid, we may call for help.” He looked to Phil. “Can we count on some assistance investigating in the colonies?”

 

“Of course, whatever you need. Thank you for being willing to discuss this at all.”

 

“JARVIS will send all my info to this number, okay?” Tony interjected, and got confirmation before they bid farewell and hung up. “Kingsman Agents? Really? I’ve been to their shop and they’re good suits but I didn’t see anything weird.”

 

“Of course you didn’t. Kingsman are super soldiers, have their own proprietary serum. Private intelligence.”

 

Tony blinked. “Can’t be any worse than what the CIA does when bored I guess.”

 

“Or what SHIELD does. They’re good, I’ll vouch for them.”

 

“Good, like, at what they do? Or good, Cap’s public persona good?”

 

“Yes, and maybe. I can’t claim to know too much.” Phil admitted. “Galahad is a friend.”

 

“Knights of the Round Table call signs? And you chose an alcoholic drink for Justin? Uninspired, man.”

 

“We don’t have legends like that. I’m too white to use Native American myths, and I’m not using the founding fathers, that’s lame, and just as goddamn suspicious sounding as a mixed drink.” Phil shrugged.

 

“What are we calling his sidekick? Wanda?”

 

Cosmo and Wanda. Phil snorted. “Let’s wait until they get here.”

 

“I can come up with all sorts of nicknames before then.”

 

“That I do not doubt.”

 

* * *

 

JARVIS told them that Clint had arrived, nicely interrupting Tony’s increasingly obsessive spiral of frustration as he dug deeper into Valentine. So, Phil met them at the door.

 

“Hey boss. Easy as pie.” Clint beamed, taking off his sunglasses as he led the former prisoners in.

 

“…This is Tony Stark’s place. Why bring us here?” Justin looked on edge. His companion stayed next to him, holding his hand, which okay, Phil didn’t expect that particular twist in his plans.

 

“He’s in his lab downstairs. One thing at a time. I hate to say that you switched lockdowns, but yes, kind of. Basically, you’re here for safekeeping and I might have a job for you later.”

 

Justin blinked. “Ooookay, that leaves me with a lot more questions than answers. But, thanks for making good on what you told me before. You got me out. Thanks.”

 

“Of course. I’m just glad I managed to pull it off.” Phil snorted. “Who’s your friend?”

 

“I’m Cupcake.”

 

Phil blinked, then looked at Clint, who was admiring the view out Tony’s windows. Clint looked back. “He told me the same thing, boss.”

 

“My name sucks. Justin calls me Cupcake. I’m Cupcake.” He shrugged in a ‘deal with it’ sort of way.

 

“Cake shot! You’re both girly drinks, fantastic! Jailhouse romance, Hammer?” Tony’s voice led the way as he came upstairs.

 

Justin stared at him then looked at Phil. “Just take me back to jail.”

 

“Oh don’t be like that, he called you an asset and everything.” Tony walked up even with Phil, looking between them. “No really, this is cute, how did it start? And you made Barton get him out too, ballsy.”

 

“That was mostly Cupcake.” Clint walked back over. “Be nice or I’ll break half the stuff in the Tower, Stark.”

 

“I’ll just make better stuff. You two can get going, I’ll look after them.”

 

“What does that entail?” Justin wanted to know.

 

“Getting you some clean clothes maybe, and some pizza for starters.”

 

Phil rolled his eyes. “Right. Be good boys, I’ll be in touch.” He gestured to Clint and headed for the door.

 

“Can we stay overnight? I want to take you to dinner and sleep in a fancy hotel.” Clint beeped the car open. “I hardly get to see you anymore. I miss you.”

 

“Yeah, sure.” He smiled at Clint in spite of himself. “Got any place in mind?”

 

“Hell yeah I do, get in.”


	28. Chapter 28

“Do you know what I hate the most about the Dog serum?”

 

Phil stared out over the ocean, leaning into Clint’s side. “There’s plenty not to like. What’s your pet peeve?”

 

“I’m not sure that ‘pet peeve’ is a strong enough term.” Clint looked at him. “The way it steals time from us. I know that’s perception, and yeah we’re busy, but it only struck me recently how much time has passed.”

 

“I’ve noticed it. I notice it every time I look in the mirror.” He admitted, passing his free hand over his hair. The near-black of it was slowly being taken over by grey spreading from his temples, and his hairline had long started to recede back.

 

“They told me recently that I probably have five years with the Avengers before my serum won’t maintain that level of action. Told me to keep that in mind every time I jumped out a window.” Clint laced their fingers together. “And that made me realize I’m over forty and I barely noticed. It feels like I took the serum last month and we saved New York yesterday. I can remember everything if I think about it, but it’s hard to, and the details aren’t great. Is that part of the conditioning and they didn’t tell us? To make it harder for us to, um, whistle blow?”

 

“That is actually a good possibility. I’m lucky. Cap’s serum may be letting me write and have reasonable recall, but I have been checking files to refresh a little.”

 

“That’s why I hate it.” He shifted, pulling Phil into a hug and burying his face into Phil’s neck. “I can’t pull a file and refresh my memory for this. We’ve been together fifteen years, Phil.”

 

He blinked, rubbing Clint’s back then squeezing him tight. “Shit, it has passed your fifteenth serum anniversary hasn’t it.”

 

“Our anniversary too, that I remember. You were awesome so deciding to stay close was easy.”

 

“And we’ve been exclusive since I told Nick off.”

 

“He’s still a fucking creeper for that.”

 

Phil huffed out a laugh in spite of himself. “We should get a stupidly expensive meal together and expense it.”

 

“Yeah.” He pulled back, searching Phil’s face. “Things are about to get bad, aren’t they?”

 

“… Maybe. I feel like something is coming.”

 

Clint stole a kiss. “Come on. Expensive late anniversary dinner, then a fancy hotel room so I can feel that synergy you hide from everyone now.”

 

His smile was wan, lacing their hands again as they walked back up the boardwalk to Phil’s car. “Secret weapon.”

 

“That’s sad.”

 

“Yeah. A bit. Japanese?”

 

“Gods, yes.”

 

* * *

 

After what was probably weeks of tense paranoia and trying to put together an increasingly insane, harebrained backup plan without anyone noticing, it was amazingly easy to relax and forget all about it with Clint.

 

Clint was still in his suit from his ‘undercover’ trip to get Hammer out of prison, and with their weapons secured in the trunk of the car, ties off and collars open, they both passed reasonably well for off-work businessmen. And probably an all but married gay couple.

 

They sat across from each other, sharing sushi platters and pots of tea, legs tangled together as they talked about anything but work. It was wonderful, and maybe it was telling but the word that came to mind for Phil was ‘humanizing.’ Clint had always been a bright spot in his life, and in these precious hours he could just enjoy that and try not to linger on any alternative endings. SHIELD and the serum had let him save and recruit Clint, had led directly to this, them smiling as they poked each other with chopsticks, play fighting over favorite sushi. It had also taken away any chance of a ‘normal’ life. Their lives did not come packaged with white picket fences and PTA meetings; they knew that when they’d signed up. Phil rarely regretted it, but he regretted this.

 

“You know.” Phil said eventually, the crumbs of fried green tea ice cream on a plate between them. “If we weren’t Dogs, I probably would have asked you to marry me already.”

 

Clint gaped then grinned, shock and happiness pouring off his synergy. “I would have said yes. What about Nick?”

 

“He should have put a ring on it.” Phil laughed. “His loss.”

 

“Hell yes his loss. Let’s get married anyway. Yeah command won’t be happy but whatever, it isn’t like we’re voting or trying to buy a house.” He reached across the table, taking Phil’s hand. “Fuck it. Things are about to get bad, who cares if it’s Valentine or work or a superpower. Let’s do something crazy. Let’s get married.”

 

Phil stared, feeling himself blush bright. “What, really?”

 

“Yes really!”

 

He ducked his head, biting his lip before looking back up. “This isn’t Vegas. I don’t think we’re going to find a 24-hour Justice of the Peace, here.”

 

“So uh not to eavesdrop or anything, but I have a friend who’s Pastafarian. She can legally perform weddings.” Their waitress said, standing at their table with the bill. “And a friend of hers has a jewelry store a few blocks down from here. Should I make some calls?”

 

Phil stared at her, still holding Clint’s hand, then looked at Clint, whose eyebrow raise did not hide the naked hope there. “Yeah, sure. Please do. Let’s do something crazy.”

 

“Awesome. Here, congratulations.” She grinned and held the bill out.

 

Clint grabbed it. “You’re getting an awesome tip.”

 

“And here’s another. Wait a while before you get a SIM card from Valentine if you’re going to get one.” Phil told her, more serious.

 

“Oh uh, insider information?” She blinked.

 

“Industry rumor. Wait a while to see if the network stabilizes at all.” He hoped that sounded legit. “Give it a week or something.”

 

“Thank you! Really awesome of you, no point in switching immediately if the service is going to be crap at first.”

 

“Pass it on but you didn’t hear it from me.”

 

Clint handed her the bill with his expense card and watched her go, before looking at Phil. “Are we doing this sir?”

 

“Not if you’re calling me sir we aren’t.” He scoffed, and smiled when Clint laughed.

 

* * *

 

It turned out the Pastafarian was available, and legally able to officiate weddings, and reported for duty happily with a colander on her head. Neither Phil nor Clint batted an eye: fuck it, they’d seen weirder shit. The Pastafarian’s friend’s jewelry shop was more artsy than mainstream, but they found polished wooden bands they both liked a lot. They weren’t expensive, and the cost on Phil’s personal account wouldn’t be noticed.

 

All in all, a few hours later they were in a very nice hotel Phil had gotten them a room at, a marriage license in a folder to be put at Clint’s place in Stark Tower for safe keeping, and polished silk-smooth cherry bands on their fingers.

 

“You’re going to put this in your book, right?” Clint was sprawled on Phil, pressing a kiss to the mark he’d left on Phil’s neck, possessive and unashamed.

 

“Of course I am.” He hummed, running his fingers up and down Clint’s spine. “We can’t wear these rings in public you know.”

 

“Or tell anyone. Secret marriage, I know.” Clint levered up on one elbow, looking at Phil in consideration. “It’s a good secret. I’m alright with it. I figured that I’d wear both, like a fashion statement, and give yours back when we’re together.”

 

Phil smiled. “I look forward to the headlines. ‘Why is Hawkeye wearing two bands on his wedding finger?’”

 

“Nah, our ring sizes are pretty close, I’ll wear them stacked on the opposite hand. If I’m shooting I’ll put them on my dogtags chain.”

 

“I’d say you thought this out, but we didn’t think any of this out.” Phil kissed him gently.

 

“And that’s why it’s awesome. I am going to tell Nat, okay?”

 

“Yeah. I trust her with our secrets.”

 

Clint tucked his face back into Phil’s neck.  “We’re gunna make it, right?”

 

“I hope so, baby. I really hope so.”


End file.
